"
"I know you are not," she returned. "But don't think that you had better
confess, just the same?"
He answered wonderingly, "Confess?"
"Yes." She shook her finger at him, in playful severity. "Oh, I know what
you have been up to all summer--running wild with your mountain girl!
Really, you ought to be more discreet."
Aaron King's face burned as he stammered something about not knowing what
she meant.
She laughed gaily. "There, there, never mind--I forgive you--now that you
are safely back in civilization again. I know you artists, and how you
must have your periods of ah--relaxation--with rather more liberties than
the common herd. Just so you are careful that the world doesn't know _too_
much."
At this frank revelation of her mind, the man stood amazed. For the
construction she put upon his relation with the girl whose pure and gentle
comradeship had led him to greater heights in his art than he had ever
before attained, he could have driven this woman from the studio he felt
that she profaned. But what could he say? He remembered Conrad Lagrange's
counsel when James Rutlidge had seen the girl at their camp. What could he
say that would not injure Sibyl Andres? To cover his embarrassment, he
forced a laugh and answered lightly, "Really, I am not good at
confessions.
Pages:
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344