“There you have life—a little pain, a little wrong, a little love, then stone dead we lie.”
Words could no more describe the melancholy of her voice than they could the beauty of her face.
“You are very young,” he said, pityingly, “to know so much more of sorrow than of joy.”
Then she seemed suddenly to remember that she was talking to a stranger, one whom a few moments before she hardly saw. She, too, grew slightly confused, and abruptly changed the conversation.
“As landlord and tenant,” she said, “we ought to have some agreement, I suppose. I do not wish to cause you any heavy expense, and if my whim be gratified, I am perfectly willing to defray a just share of the expense.”
“You want a pretty window?” said Kenelm, suddenly. “I will give you a design.”
He took his pencil, drawing a sheet of paper near him, with a few bold, graceful strokes, he completed the design of a very handsome window. He showed it to her.
“Yes,” she said, “that is what I want. How quick you are to seize upon an idea! To make that perfect there should be purple passion flowers around these fluted pillars.”
“And a beautiful face peeping through the leaves,” he said. “You shall have the window, Mrs. Payton, and when it is completed to our satisfaction, we will arrange such minor and uninteresting details as expense. You must let me come sometimes to see how the design progresses.”
“I cannot refuse you admittance to your own house,” she replied, with a smile, “but my rule is imperative. I see no visitors.”