"Man delights not me."—SHAKESPEARE.
"And the taable staained wi' his aale, an' the mud o' 'is Boots o'
the stairs,
An' the stink o' 'is pipe i' the 'ouse, an' the mark o' 'is 'ead o'
the chairs!"
—TENNYSON.
I didn't ask for any explanation.
I had the sense not to show any surprise at the self-abandonment of this usually so sturdily reserved little chum of mine.
I just plumped down on the stones beside her and slipped my arm about the sobbing little overalled body. I suppose it comforted her. For presently she left off sobbing, drew a long breath, blew her nose, and began, in a resigned little voice, to open out her whole heart to me.
"You know who I mean, Joan?"
"Yes, old kid."
The name of "Colonel Fielding" seemed to hang in the air above us as tangibly as those hazel boughs against the sky, but neither of us uttered it.
In rueful little spurts the truth began to gush from the once silent and matter-of-fact Elizabeth.
"I guessed you'd guess. Oh, Joan! I'm idiotic about him. Crazy! As silly about him as you ever were about your precious Harry in London.