a
sigh for the past, which touched Dierdre's heart as the wind, in his
fancy, touched the trees. "Couldn't you use your old knowledge, and
learn to paint without seeing?" she asked. "You might have a line for
the horizon, and with someone to mix your colours under your
directions--someone who'd tell you where to find the reds, where the
greens, and so on, someone to warn you if you went wrong. You might make
wonderful effects."

"I've thought of that," said Brian. "I've hoped--it might be. Sometime,
when this trip is over, I may ask my sister's help----"

"Oh, your sister's!" Dierdre broke in. "But she may marry. Or she may go
back to nursing again. I wish I could help you. It would make me happy.
It would be helping myself, more than you! And we could begin soon. I
could buy you paints from a list you'd give me. If we succeeded, you
could surprise your sister and the Becketts. It would be splendid."

Brian agreed that it would be splendid, but he said that his sister must
be "in" it, too. He wouldn't have secrets from her, even for the
pleasure of a surprise.

"She won't let me help you," Dierdre said. "She'll want to do everything
for you herself."

Brian assured the girl that she was mistaken about his sister. "She's
mistaken about you, too," he added. "You'll see! Molly'll be grateful
to you for inventing such a plan for me. She'll want you to be the one
to carry it out."

No argument of his could convince the girl, however. They came back to
the hotel at last, after a walk by the river, closer friends than
before, but Dierdre depressed, if no longer sulky. She seemed in a
strange, tense mood, as though there were more she wished to say--if she
dared.

Dusk was falling (this was evening of the day we arrived, you must
realize, Padre) and Brian admitted that he was tired. He'd taken no such
walk since he came out of hospital, weeks and weeks ago.

"Let's go and sit in the _salon_, to rest a few minutes and finish our
talk," he proposed. "We're almost sure to have the room to ourselves."

But for once Brian's intuition was at fault. There were two persons in
the little _salon_, a lady writing letters at a desk by the window, and
a French officer who had drawn the one easy chair in the room in front
of a small wood fire. This fire had evidently not existed long, as the
room was cold, with the grim, damp chill of a place seldom occupied or
opened to the air.

As Dierdre led Brian in, the lady at the desk g