Clark's face was grave. "And if I did?"
She looked at him with growing fascination. Surrounded by the gigantic things of his own creation he was impressive, but here in the solitudes he took on even more suggestive characteristics. She stretched out a slim brown hand.
"You will find me very difficult sometimes, I warn you now."
"I like difficult things, they seem to come my way."
The languid hours sped by. Clark swam, fished, paddled with the girl, entertained her party in the tug's white painted saloon, and chatted with Mrs. Dibbott, the chaperon, about St. Marys. But most of all he explored the mind of Elsie Worden. It was like opening successive doors to his own intelligence. She startled him with her intuition, delighted him with her keen sense of humor, and seemed to grasp the man's complex nature with superlative ease. And, yielding to her charms, Clark, for the first time in his life, felt that he must go slow. It was a new country to him. Previous experience had left no landmarks here.
They were drifting lazily along the shore, miles from the others, when
Elsie, after a long pause, glanced at him curiously.
"Will you tell me just what you find in music?"
"But I don't know anything about it."
"Perhaps not, but you feel it, and that's what counts. I've only heard you play twice."
"Once," he corrected.