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."
"Do it to please me, then," she said impulsively.
He smiled into her eyes.
"Would it please you, Chirpy?"
Her eyes met his with absolute candour.
"Immensely," she said. "Immensely! You know it would."
He held out his hand for the sketch.
"All right, then. You shall be my inspiration."
She laughed lightly.
"Till that nice little woman turns up."
"Exactly," said Rivington.
He continued to hold out his hand, but she withheld the sketch.
"I'm going to keep it, if you don't mind."
"What for?" he said.
"Because I like it. I want it. Why shouldn't I?"
"I will do you something better worth having than that," he said.
"Something I shouldn't like half so well," she returned. "No, I'm going
to keep this, in memory of a perfect afternoon and some of the happiest
days of my life."
Rivington gave in, still smiling.
"I'm going back to town to-morrow," he said.
"Oh, are you?" Actual dismay sounded in her voice. "Why?"
"I'm afraid I must," he said. "I'm sorry. Shall you be lonely?"
"Oh, no," she rejoined briskly. "Of course not. I wasn't lonely before
you came." She added rather wistfully, "It was good of you to stay so
long; I hope you haven't been very bored?"
"Not a bit," said Rivington. "I've only been afraid of boring you."
She laughed a little. A certain constraint seemed to have fallen upon
her.
"How horribly polite we are getting!" she said.
He laid his hand for an instant on her shoulder.
"I shall come again, Chirpy," he said.
She nodded carelessly, not looking at him.
"Yes, mind you do. I dare say I shan't be having any other visitors at
present."
But though her manner was perfectly friendly, Rivington was conscious of
that unwonted constraint during the rest of his visit. He even fancied
on the morrow that she bade him farewell with relief.