"Galatea," he said, "is coming to life."
Subconsciously she had caught his spirit of resentment, and, being a woman, she thrilled to the sense of rebellion in his nature. With the unlocking of her emotions had come the sparkle in the blue depths of her eyes, and the animation which had lit at once the dormant radiancy of her beauty—and his sudden admiration. In addition—though none was needed—the mellowing sun lingered on her hair till it seemed like strands of gold.
"You look like a wild rose," he said irrelevantly, then dashed on into a sea of words. "Are you content with this? Do you never feel a divine restlessness in your nature, urging you to be the architect of your own fate? Are you satisfied to be a mere link in the chain of generations? Surely the individualistic instinct is not dead in this country?"
He paused, rather astonished, but quite pleased with his burst of oratory.
"What would you have me do?"
"Anything—everything that expresses your own personality. Be yourself, and get away from type."
"I have done a little."
"What? Appeared in a few charity tableaux vivants? Posed for your photo in the Sketch as a woman interested in war work?"
"I am sorry," she said demurely, "that you disapprove of me."
"Great Scott!" he said, thrusting his hands into his pockets with an air of defiance, "you are one of the most charming women I've ever seen." He drew himself up to his full height. "But before I succumb to the beauty of these surroundings and the—the—loveliest——"