She did know it.

"Now for the when--and that's the most important. I should like to
paint you in the early morning when the day is young and innocent and
beautiful--like--like--" He was careful to break off in a most natural
seeming embarrassment. "That's a bit thick, but she'll swallow it all
right. Gone down? Right!" he told himself.

"I could come out at six if you liked, or--or five," said Betty,
humbly anxious to do her part.

He was almost shocked. "My good child," he told her silently, "someone
really ought to teach you not to do all the running. You don't give a
man a chance."

"Then will you meet me here to-morrow at six?" he said. "You won't
disappoint me, will you?" he added tenderly.

"No," said downright Betty, "I'll be sure to come. But not to-morrow,"
she added with undisguised regret; "to-morrow's Sunday."

"Monday then," said he, "and good-bye."

"Good-bye, and--oh, I don't know how to thank you!"

"I'm very much mistaken if you don't," he said as he stood bareheaded,
watching the pink gown out of sight.

"Well, adventures to the adventurous! A clergyman's daughter, too! I
might have known it."