For a moment there was a silence, and Philip fancied that she began to say something, and then halted abruptly; but he couldn't be certain. It may have only been the noise of the brook. He looked at her sharply, but she rose and turned her back.
"We'd better start back," she said. "It will be getting dark."
For a long time they walked side by side in silence—an odd silence in which they seemed to be talking to each other all the while. It was Mary who actually spoke.
"But you don't mean to go on forever in the Mills? Have you thought what you want to do?"
Again he waited for a long time before answering her. It must have seemed to Mary that he was being shy and cautious with her, that despite the pouring out of his story, there was still a great deal that he had kept hidden away. He had the air of a man who was afraid of confidences.
At last he said, "I don't know whether I ought to speak of it, but I do know what I want to do. It sounds ridiculous, but what I want to do is . . . is . . . paint." He blurted it out as if it required an immense effort, as if he were confessing a sin.
"Pictures?" asked Mary. "Do you know anything about it?"
"No . . . not very much. I've always wanted to, in away. A long time ago, when I was a boy, I used to spend all my time drawing things." His voice fell a little. "But as I grew older, it seemed foolish . . . and the other thing came up . . . and I did that instead. You see, I've been drawing a bit lately. I've been drawing in the Flats—the engines and cranes and
