"You must put your coat on," she said suddenly.
"But" said William who really had delved and shovelled to some purpose.
June was not to be Butted—not this golden day.
"If you don't you might get a bad chill," she said severely.
William rose and did her bidding. And in the midst of that simple act, a certain piece of confidential information, which Sir Arthur and Miss Laura had been kind enough to supply at frequent intervals during the last few days, recurred forcibly to his mind. It was to the effect that "Miss Gedge was so practical she would make an ideal wife for an artist."
As far as the major premise was concerned it was less irrelevant than at first it might seem, for William had recently decided that an artist was what he was going to be. In the very act of putting on his coat he now recalled the high and sacred mystery to which his life was vowed. And further he recalled that before entering the garden he had taken the precaution of slipping a neat little sketching book and pencil into his coat pocket. Thus, upon sitting down, in solemn silence he took them forth and proceeded to draw.
June it was who broke the silence, after some little while.
"If you are drawing that myrtle," she said, "it looks a bit potty to me stuck up there. There's nothing to it."
She was more her true self this happy morning than for many a tragic month.
"It'll grow," said the artist.
"Won't seem much if it doesn't in that great jar. It was Miss Babraham's idea to stick it there, so it's
