out she bent again to her work, while Blair remained, looking down at
her, in his eyes mingled amusement and resentment. What had he done, he
wondered, to account for such a change? Or, perhaps, it was something he
had not done. He tried again.

"Aren't we going for our ride this morning? It's a glorious day, and I
have the refusal of the two best horses."

"No, I think not, - not this morning, thank you," she answered. In her
voice was the same crisp sweetness. "I haven't time!"

With a shrug of pure bewilderment he backed away, then lingered a moment
longer to watch the sketch take shape beneath her hurrying brush. That
was the particular moment Miss Hastings chose for the final reckless
stab.

"You're standing in my light," she said. "If you'd just as soon, please
do go away, Mr. Blair. It makes me nervous to have people looking over
my shoulder when I'm trying to paint."

This was just a trifle more than Blair at the moment was prepared to
stand. His eyes grew dark.

"Certainly," he replied icily. "So sorry to have bothered you at all. I
only came down to tell you that I've decided to leave today. There's
nothing more to keep me now, I think, and I'm rather anxious to get
home. You'll find your check at the desk." And he sauntered away.

She did not go back to the hotel for luncheon. She had finished her
sketch, yet, somehow, when the time came, she discovered that it would