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“Did you tell mother where I was?”

“On the contrary,” said Rivington, “I implored her to tell me.”

She drew a sharp breath.

“That was very ingenious of you.”

“So I thought,” he rejoined modestly.

“And what did she say?”

“She said with scarcely a pause that she had sent you out of town to give you time to come to your senses, and it was quite futile for me to question her, as she had not the faintest intention of revealing your whereabouts.”

Ernestine breathed again.

“I said in the note I left behind for her that she wasn’t to worry about me. I had gone into the country to get away from my troubles.”

“That was ingenious, too,” he commented. “I think, if you ask me, that we have come out of the affair rather well.”

“We have all been remarkably subtle,” she said, with a sigh. “But I don’t like subtlety, you know. It’s very horrid, and it frightens me rather.”

“What are you afraid of?” he said.

“I don’t know. I think I am afraid of going too far and not being able to get back.”

“Do you want to get back?” he asked.

“No, no, of course not. At least, not yet,” she assured him.

“Then, my dear,” he said, “I think, if you will allow me to say so, that you are disquieting yourself in vain.”

He spoke very kindly, with a gentleness that was infinitely reassuring.

With an impulsive movement of complete confidence, she slipped her hand through his arm.

“Thank you, Knight Errant,” she said. “I wanted that.”

She did not ask him anything about Dinghra, and he wondered a little at her forbearance.

VII

HIS INSPIRATION

The days of Rivington’s sojourn slipped by with exceeding smoothness. They did a little fishing and a good deal of quiet lazing, a little exploring, and even one or two long, all-day rambles.

And then one day, to Ernestine’s amazement, Rivington took her sketching-block from her and began to sketch. He worked rapidly and quite silently for about an hour, smoking furiously the while, and finally laid before her the completed sketch.

She stared at it in astonishment.

“I had no idea you were a genius. Why, it’s lovely!”

He smiled a little.

“I did it for a living once, before my father died and left me enough to buy me bread and cheese. I became a loafer then, and I’ve been one ever since.”

“But what a pity!” she exclaimed.

His smile broadened.

“It is, isn’t it? But where’s the sense of working when you’ve nothing to work for? No, it isn’t the work of a genius. It’s the work of a man who might do something good if he had the incentive for it, but not otherwise.”

“What a pity!” she said again. “Why don’t you take to it again?”

“I might,” he said, “if I found it worth while.”

He tapped the ashes from his pipe and settled himself at full length.

“Surely it is worth while!” she protested. “Why, you might make quite a lot of money.”

Rivington stuck the empty pipe between his teeth and pulled at it absently.

“I’m not particularly keen on money,” he said.

“But it’s such a waste,” she argued. “Oh, I wish I had your talent. I would never let it lie idle.”

“It isn’t my fault,” he said; “I am waiting for an inspiration.”

“What do you mean by an inspiration?”

He turned lazily upon his side and looked at her.

“Let us say, for instance, if some nice little woman ever cared to marry me,” he said.

There fell a sudden silence. Ernestine was studying his sketch with her head on one side. At length, “You will never marry,” she said, in a tone of conviction.

“Probably not,” agreed Rivington.

He lay still for a few seconds, then sat up slowly and removed his pipe to peer over her shoulder.

“It isn’t bad,” he said critically.

She flashed him a sudden smile.

“Do take it up again!” she pleaded. “It’s really wicked of you to go and bury a talent like that.”

He shook his head.

“I can’t sketch just to please myself. It isn’t in me.”