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think you find life so dull here that you have to play patience. Of all occupations in the world!"
"Oh, everything goes on a day like this," answered his guest. But he made no move toward the drawer indicated by his host. Out-of-doors a warm rain was falling, washing the young leaves of the maples across the ravine, and with its gentle patter dulling the song of the little stream. The studio windows were open at Miles's elbow, and now and then a raindrop splashed against his cheek. The baby nasturtiums in the box outside danced and courtesied on their slender stalks as though from very happiness.
"What's the matter with the day?" grunted Hunter, as his pen went creaking slowly, laboriously, on again over the paper.
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"Rainy, of course."
