eart. Indeed, you must not mind me at all. I am, first of
all, a sort of crank; and then, as I say, I don't know a word about
painting; please forget my criticisms."

She understood his mood now. His anxiety to regain her good-will was
within her grasp, and she seized the opportunity to make him plead for
himself and exonerate her.

"You have torn my summer's work to flinders," she said, sullenly,
looking down at a bit of charcoal she was grinding into the rug beneath
her feet.

He was aghast. "Don't say that, I beg of you! Good Heavens! don't let my
preachment discourage you. You see, I have two or three hobbies, and
when I am once mounted I'm sure to ride right over somebody's garden
wall." He rose and approached her. "I shall never forgive myself if I
have taken away the smallest degree of your enthusiasm. My aim--if I had
an aim--was to help you to understand my people, so that when you come
out next summer--"

"All that is ended now," she said, sombrely. "I shall attempt no more
Indian work!"

This silenced him. He took time to consider what this sudden depression
on her part meant. As he studied her he saw her lip quiver, and anxiety
suddenly left him. His tone was laughter-filled as he called: "Come,
now, Miss Brisbane, you're making game of me by taking my criticisms so
solemnly. I can see a smile twitching your lips this moment. Look at
me!"

She looked up and broke into a laugh. He joined in with her, but a flush
rose to his face.

"You fooled me completely. I reckon you should have been an actress
instead of a painter."

She sobered a little. "Really, I _was_ depressed for a moment. Your tone
was so terribly destructive. Shall we go down?"

"Not till you say you'll forgive me and forget my harangue."

She gave him her hand. "I'll forgive you, but I'm going to remember the
harangue. I--rather liked it. It made me think. Strange to say, I like
people who make me think."

Again his heart leaped with the blood of exultant youth. "She is coming
to understand me better!" he thought.

"You must see my other pictures by daylight," she was saying. "Mr.
Lawson likes this one particularly." They had moved out into the little
reception-room. "I did it in Giverney--we all go down sooner or later to
paint one of Monet's pollard willows. These are my 'stunts.'"

Lawson! Yes, there was the secret of her increasing friendliness. As the
fiancee of Lawson she could afford to lessen her reserve towards his
frie