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book—it’s mine !” and she held out her hand for it Martin, however, showed no inclination to hand it over. Coolly he flicked through the pages of the sketch book and Fenella felt all the resentment she had been feeling focus itself on this stranger who was probing with obvious curiosity one of the most private joys of her life —the ability to draw what she saw all about her so that it had life—movement.
    “Yes, I know,” Martin admitted. “Trevose told me so. He fetched the book because he wanted to show me the sketches you’d made of an earlier craft he once had.” He fluttered through the pages and found the sketch, presenting it to her to bear out his explanation.
    Fenella was silent, the memory of the day she had made that drawing still vivid in her mind. The intense blue of sky and sea, the warmth of the sun as Anthony made the final preparation before they put to sea. No further back than last year, that had been. A day without cloud of any sort. A day to remember and cherish all the more because it wasn’t very likely that it would ever be repeated.
    “Yes, I see. But did Anthony tell you that you could look through the book?” she challenged. “Because if so, he had no right to. The book is mine” And again Fenella held out her hand for it.
    This time Martin laid it down on a table close to Fenella’s hand.
    “I appreciate you feeling that I’ve taken a liberty,” he said slowly. “But I can’t regret that I have because—” he paused. “Because, from what I’ve seen, you’re just the person I’ve been looking for.”
    “Oh?” Fenella said suspiciously.
    “Yes, I want to find someone to illustrate the book I’m on at present,” Martin explained. “I don’t mean in the old-fashioned way—having perhaps half a dozen full page pictures—but little sketches round the margins. I expect you know the sort of thing I mean—perhaps a pool or rocks or gulls. Perhaps part of the boat—anything that would give colour to the reading matter.”
    “I’m afraid I’m not interested,” Fenella said coldly.
    “No? May I know why not?” Martin asked with interest.
    Fenella shrugged her shoulders.
    “I think you overrate my abilities,” she explained. “I’m not a professional artist, you know. I just scribble for my own pleasure.”
    “You mean you’ve had no training?” he asked incredulously, and picking up her book again, turned at random to a page on which an excited spaniel puppy was chasing, ears streaming, after a panic-stricken rabbit.
    Involuntarily Fenella smiled. Amber had always been so sure that this time she would catch her quarry—but she never did. Now, a sedate old matron, she was content to lie in the sunshine and could hardly be persuaded to take even the shortest walk.
    “No, I’ve had no training except what I had at school,” she explained. “So you see it would be quite absurd for me to take on such work!”
    “I don’t agree,” Martin said stubbornly. “You’ve got just the touch I want—and surely I’m the best judge of that!”
    “More than likely,” Fenella acknowledged coolly. “But I’m still not interested, Mr. Adair."
    She turned away from him, determined to put an end to the interview even though it meant going out into the garden again, but, with a quick, lithe movement, Martin blocked her way.
    “Look, this is important to me, so you must forgive me if I'm rather insistent. You obviously enjoy sketching, and unless you’re different from anyone else I know, you must surely appreciate the compliment that’s entailed when you’re offered payment for your work. Or didn’t you realise that I meant to pay you? Is that the trouble?”
    “I didn’t give the matter a thought one way or the other,” Fenella said airily.
    “No? Then that isn’t the reason you’re turning me down,” Martin concluded. “So I wonder if you’d mind telling me just what is?”
    Put as directly as that, Fenella was in something of a quandary. Why had

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