“And,” he added, as if with an effort, “when the season is over, Miss Benson, I am going to settle down to work.”
“I'm glad of that,” she said, turning upon him a face glowing with approval.
“Yes, I have arranged to go on with practice in my uncle's office. I remember what you said about a dilettante life.”
“Why, I never said anything of the kind.”
“But you looked it. It is all the same.”
They had come to the crown of the hill, and stood looking over the intervales to the purple mountains. Irene was deeply occupied in tying up with grass a bunch of wild flowers. Suddenly he seized her hand.
“Irene!”
“No, no,” she cried, turning away. The flowers dropped from her hand.
“You must listen, Irene. I love you—I love you.”
She turned her face towards him; her lips trembled; her eyes were full of tears; there was a great look of wonder and tenderness in her face.