There ARE other people to talk about, you
feel, then?"
"None that I want to," he said. "But I should think the size of
the place might relieve your mind of what seems to insist on
burdening it. Besides, I'd rather you thought me a better man
than you do."
"What kind of a man do I think you are?"
"The kind affected by what's said about people instead of by what
they do themselves."
"Aren't you?"
"No, I'm not," he said. "If you want our summer evenings to be
over you'll have to drive me away yourself."
"Nobody else could?"
"No."
She was silent, leaning forward, with her elbows on her knees and
her clasped hands against her lips. Then, not moving, she said
softly:
"Well--I won't!"
She was silent again, and he said nothing, but looked at her,
seeming to be content with looking. Her attitude was one only a
graceful person should assume, but she was graceful; and, in the
wan light, which made a prettily shaped mist of her, she had
beauty. Perhaps it was beauty of the hour, and of the love scene
almost made into form by what they had both just said, but she
had it; and though beauty of the hour passes, he who sees it will
long remember it and the hour when it came.
"What are you thinking of?" he asked.
She leaned back in her chair and did not answer at once.
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