The gentleman made no remark upon this, but confined his attention to his work for a few minutes; then looked at his watch.

‘Is that sketch ready to show?—­Time’s up.’

‘And the squirrel is down.  But not much else.’

Not much!—­the squirrel sat contemplatively gazing into Mr. Rollo’s hat, which lay on the rock before him, quite undisturbed by a remarkable looking witch who rose up at the other end.  The gentleman surveyed them attentively.

‘Do you consider these true portraits?’

‘I do not think the hat would be a tight fit,’ said she, smothering a laugh.

‘Well!’ said he comically, ’it is said that no man knows himself—­how it may be with women I can’t say!’ And he made over the sketch in his hand and went to his former work; which had been cutting a stick.

There was more in this second sketch.  The handling was effective as it had been swift.  Considering that fifteen minutes and a lead pencil were all, there had been a great deal done, in a style that proved use and cultivation as well as talent.  The rocks, upper and lower, were truly given; the artist had chosen a different state of light from the actual hour of the day, and had thus thrown a great mass into fine relief.  Round it the ferns and mosses and creepers with a light hand were beautifully indicated.  But in the nook where Wych Hazel had stationed herself, there was no pretty little figure with her book on her lap; in its place, sharply and accurately given, was a scraggy, irregular shaped bush, with a few large leaves and knobby excrescences which looked like acorns, but an oak it was not, still less a tree.  The topmost branch was crowned with Miss Kennedy’s nodding hat, and upon another branch lay her open drawing book.  Miss Kennedy shook her head.

’I cannot deny the relationship!—­Your style of handling is perhaps a trifle dry.  That is not what you call an “ideal woman,” is it, Mr. Rollo?’

’I might fairly retort upon that.  What do you say to our moving from this ground, before the band up there gets into Minor?’

Retaking of a sudden her demureness, slipping away to her first position on the rock, with hands busy about the pink flowers, Wych Hazel answered, as once before—­

‘Do not let me detain you—­do not wait for me, Mr. Rollo.’

’Shall I consider myself dismissed? and send some more fortunate friend to help you out of your difficulty?’

‘I am not in any difficulty, thank you.’

‘Only you don’t know your way,’ he said, with perhaps a little amusement, though it hardly appeared.  ’Is it true that you will not give me the honour of guiding you?’

‘In the first place,’ said Miss Hazel, wreathing her pink flowers with quick fingers, ’I know the way by which I came, perfectly.  In the second place, I never submit voluntarily to anybody’s guidance.’

’Will you excuse me for correcting myself.  I meant, in “not knowing your way,” merely the way in which you are to go.’