“It depends upon what’s in it, my dear Angela.” Geoffrey watched his last, and very perfect ring, float softly against the blue.
“A shrine implies some sanctified presence.”
“I am afraid that I haven’t much faith in miraculous healings.”
“In anything, Geoffrey?”
“In no words,” the Olympian answered. The sun glittered upon his golden head as he turned to smile at Angela with, Felicia felt, implacable indifference. Their walk had brought them near the house again.
“I must go and finish my book,” said Felicia; “after these shrines and palaces I shall feel that I am creeping into a ditch when I return to it. I hope that ditches aren’t dangerous, too.”
“Why do you also pretend not to be clever?” Angela asked her softly, suddenly, smiling closely into her eyes. “What is the book?” She bent her head to the title, looking up at once gravely. “You like him?”
“I said it was like creeping into a ditch. But there is a certain splendour to be found even in ditches—he shows it to one, I think.”
Angela put a hand on her arm; “Don’t read him. A lily should not look at ditches.”
“I am going to crawl to the very end of mine—muddy ordeal though it is,” Felicia declared, trying to keep defiance from her smile, and aware that the Olympian was looking at her and that she was flushing. Her detached student’s interest was probably branded in all their eyes with some crude and ugly interpretation. Well, let them think what they liked of her. She turned and went into the house. This had not been a melodious afternoon.