7
In the evening of the next day, about half an hour before supper, June climbed the attic stairs and knocked boldly upon the studio door.
“Come in,” a gentle voice invited her.
William, a lump of cotton wool in one hand, the mysterious bottle in the other, was absorbed in the task of looking for a windmill. He had to own, the queer fellow, that so far success had not crowned his search.
“I should think not,” said June, uncompromisingly.
“But there are the trees.” William took up a knife and laid the point to a canvas that was already several tones lighter than of yore.
There was a pause while June screwed up her eyes like an expert; and in consequence she had reluctantly to admit that they were unmistakable trees.
“And now we are coming to the water, don’t you see?” said the young
