“What a rash promise,” I smiled at Dicky, then turned to Mrs. Gorman.  “I should be very glad to have the recipe,” I said.

“Here,” Dicky passed a pencil and the back of an envelope over the table.

So, while Mrs. Gorman dictated the recipe, I dutifully wrote it down.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Gorman,” I said as I finished writing.

“You are very welcome, I am sure,” she said heartily.  “You are strangers here, aren’t you?  I’ve never seen you around here before.”

“This is my wife’s first visit to this village,” Dicky struck into the conversation.  I realized that he welcomed this opportunity of beginning a conversation with Mrs. Gorman and her sister, so that he might lead up to his request for Miss Draper’s services as a model.

“I have been in the village frequently,” went on Dicky.  “I used to sketch a good deal along the brook to the north of the village.”

“Then you are an artist!” We heard Miss Draper’s voice for the first time since she had shown us to the room above.  Then her tones had been cool and indifferent.  Now her exclamation was full of emotion of some sort.

“An artist!” echoed Mrs. Gorman, staring at Dicky as if he were the President.

There was a little strained silence, then Miss Draper picked up the serving tray and hurried into the kitchen.  Mrs. Gorman wiped her eyes as she saw her sister’s departure.

“You mustn’t think we’re queer,” she said at length.  “But I suppose your saying you are an artist brought all her trouble back to Grace, poor girl.”  Mrs. Gorman’s eyes threatened to overflow again.

“If it wouldn’t trouble you too much, tell us about it.”  Dicky’s voice was gentle, inviting.  “Perhaps we could help you.”

“I don’t think anybody can help.”  Mrs. Gorman shook her head sadly.  “You see, ever since Grace was a baby, almost, she has wanted to draw things.  I brought her up.  I was the oldest and she the youngest of 12 children, and our mother died soon after she was born.  I was married shortly afterward, and from the time she could hold a pencil in her hand she has drawn pictures on everything she could lay her hands on.  In school she was always at the head of her class in drawing, but there was no money to give her any lessons, so she didn’t get very far.  Since she left school she has been planning every way to save money enough to go to an art school, but something always hinders.”

Mrs. Gorman paused only to take breath.  Having broken her reserve she seemed unable to stop talking.

“She went into a dressmaking shop as soon as she left school—­I had taught her to sew beautifully—­thinking she could earn money enough when she had learned her trade to have a term in an art school.  But her health broke down at the sewing, and I had her home here a year.”

I remembered the remarkable appearance of costly attire Miss Draper had achieved when we saw her in the station.  This, then, was the solution.  She had made them all herself.