And with a sidelong nod Adam wheeled and departed.  He had done his morning’s work.

CHAPTER II

THE PASSION-FLOWER

“Where’s that Columbine?” said Mrs. Peck.

A gay trill like the call of a blackbird in the dawning answered her.  Columbine, with a pink sun-bonnet over her black hair, was watering the flowers in the little conservatory that led out of the drawing-room.  She had just come in from the garden, and a gorgeous red rose was pinned upon her breast.  Mrs. Peck stood in the doorway and watched her.

The face above the red rose was so lovely that even her matter-of-fact soul had to pause to admire.  It was a perpetual wonder to her and a perpetual fascination.  The dark, unawakened eyes, the long, perfect brows, the deep, rich colouring, all combined to make such a picture as good Mrs. Peck realised to be superb.

Again the pure contralto trill came from the red lips, and then, with a sudden movement that had in it something of the grace of an alighting bird, Columbine turned, swinging her empty can.

“I’ve promised to take Mr. Knight to the Spear Point Caves by moonlight,” she said.  “He’s doing a moonlight study, and he doesn’t know the lie of the quicksand.”

“Sakes alive!” said Mrs. Peck.  “What made him ask you?  There’s Adam knows every inch of the shore better nor what you do.”

“He didn’t ask,” said Columbine.  “I offered.  And I know the shore just as well as Adam does, Aunt Liza.  Adam himself showed me the lie of the quicksand long ago.  I know it like my own hand.”

Mrs. Peck pursed her lips.  “I doubt but what you’d better take Adam along too,” she said.  “I wouldn’t feel easy about you.  And there won’t be any moonlight worth speaking of till after ten.  It wouldn’t do for you to be traipsing about alone even with Mr. Knight—­nice young gentleman as he be—­at that hour.”

“Aunt Liza, I don’t traipse!” Momentary indignation shone in the beautiful eyes and passed like a gleam of light.  “Dear Aunt Liza,” laughed Columbine, “aren’t you funny?”

“Not a bit,” maintained Mrs. Peck.  “I’m just common-sensical, my dear.  And it ain’t right—­it never were right in my young day—­to go walking out alone with a man after bedtime.”

“A man, Aunt Liza!  Oh, but a man!  An artist isn’t a man—­at least, not an ordinary man.”  There was a hint of earnestness in Columbine’s tone, notwithstanding its lightness.

But Mrs. Peck remained firm.  “It wouldn’t make it right, not if he was an angel from heaven,” she declared.

Columbine’s gay laugh had in it that quality of youth that surmounts all obstacles.  “He’s much safer than an angel,” she protested, “because he can’t fly.  Besides, the Spear Point Caves are all on this side of the Point.  You could watch us all the time if you’d a mind to.”

But Mrs. Peck did not laugh.  “I’d rather you didn’t go, my dear,” she said.  “So let that be the end of it, there’s a good girl!”