He was coming again soon. Helena
had neither invited nor repelled him. Whereas she had peremptorily bidden
Peter Dale for this particular Sunday, and he had thrown over half a
dozen engagements to obey her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Friend. Is Miss Pitstone at home?"
The speaker was a shaggy old fellow in an Inverness cape and an ancient
wide-awake, carrying a portfolio and a camp-stool. He had stopped in his
walk outside the open window, and his disappointed look searched the inn
parlour for a person who was not there.
"Oh, Mr. McCready, I'm so sorry!--but Miss Pitstone is out, and I don't
know when she will be back."
The artist undid his portfolio, and laid a half-finished sketch--a sketch
of Helena's--on the window-sill.
"Will you kindly give her this? I have corrected it--made some notes on
the side. Do you think Miss Helena will be likely to be sketching
to-morrow?"
"I'm afraid I can't promise for her. She seems to like walking better
than anything else just now."
"Yes, she's a splendid walker," said the old man, with a sigh.
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