the design of reassuring her
respecting the sincerity of his interest. He was aware of a vague fear
that some ill-chosen remark would send Flamby flying from him, the coy
wood-nymph to whom Don had likened her, and that she would disappear as
she had done from Bluebell Hollow. But still she hesitated.

"You look as though you mean it," she conceded, furtively glancing down
at the sketching-board in her hand. "But it's a rotter."

"I'm afraid I am to blame. I spoiled it."

"No you didn't. It was a mess before you came." She glanced at him
doubtfully, keeping the drawing turned away. "You see," she continued,
"the shadowy part of a lamb on a sunny morning is quite blue--_quite_
blue. Did you know that?"

"Well," replied Paul, musingly, shielding his eyes and looking toward
the distant flock, "now that you have drawn my attention to the fact I
perceive it to be so--yes."

"But when you haven't got many colours," explained Flamby, "it's not so
easy to paint. I've made my lamb too blue for anything!" She displayed
the drawing, her eyes dancing with laughter. "No man ever saw a blue
lamb," she said--"while he was sober!"

The words shed a sidelight upon the domestic habits of the late Sergeant
Duveen, as Paul did not fail to note; and in the masculinity of Flamby's
jesting he glimpsed something of the closeness of the intimacy which had
existed between father and daughter. But, taking the drawing from her
hands, he was astonished at the skill which it displayed and which
surpassed that of any work he had seen outside the best exhibitions. It
possessed none of the graceful insipidity of the water colours which
young ladies are taught to produce at all good boarding-schools and
convents, but was characterised by the same vigour which informed
Flamby's conversation. Furthermore, it represented a living animal, soft
of fleece and inviting a caress and was drawn with almost insolent ease.
Paul looked into the girl's watching eyes.

"You are an artist, Flamby," he said; "and like all artists you are
unduly critical of your work."

A rich colour glowed through the tan upon Flamby's cheeks and she was
aware of a delicious little nervous thrill. Paul Mario's fascinating
voice had laid its thrall upon her and his eyes were far more beautiful
even than she had supposed, when, confronting Fawkes in Bluebell Hollow,
she had suddenly looked up to find Paul watching her. That easy
self-possession which she had learned from her fat