“Well,” she said. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. "I have something further to tell you," pursued Winifred. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. "We're forgetting," he said. She waited expectantly. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. . A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. ’ ‘Ain’t it? Want me to give you some time with her? Not that I think she’ll tell you anything. She had never experienced anything so disagreeable in her life as the sense of being held helplessly off her feet. .
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