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grass, sneezing and coughing, in search of the adventure that never befell.
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The tobacco in the bowl burned
down and gave place to new. The sun
rose higher and higher. The shadows
shortened and deepened. The song of
the birds died away by degrees as
noontime approached. But the Princess
did not come. At eleven o'clock
Miles gave up hope and, carrying his
easel and stool and box, returned disappointedly
to the studio. Hunter
had just returned from a sketching expedition
and was studying the result
of his labor when Miles entered.
"Hello," he said. "Let's see the canvas."
"I didn't work this morning," answered Miles, dejectedly. "The light wasn't good." Hunter chuckled.
"Too bad," he said. And then,
