Flower o’ the pine? Not that, at least!... But what did he want?... Romance, he supposed.... Yes, he asked of Life romance.... And she tossed him—Laura!... With such an air, too, of knowing what was good for him!... Other men adventured as they chose ... over hell—under heaven ... but Life had always grandmothered him, he thought, with a new resentful flash of insight.
Romance ... the ideal woman ... with mystery in her eyes.... Yet would he after all find a position of perpetual adoration comfortable?... Would Romance darn his trousers when they rubbed through at the knees?... He smiled. Laura would.... Yes—one came back to Laura.... And if there were no mystery in Laura’s eyes, whose was the fault?...
Laura—Laura—a singing name.... He wished he could make up his mind.... He wished she would say something to him....
But Laura sat silent. Knowing him as she knew her Bible, she was generally aware of the trend of his thoughts, for his simplicity was always naïvely defeating his reserve. She felt, she knew, how easily because unconsciously, a word from her, a glance, a gesture even, might weigh down, at that moment, the balanced scales. And two years ago she would have had no scruples: would have snatched at happiness as a child snatches at a robin, curious, friendly, hopping closer and closer. But now she could sit quiet, light-breathing, letting it query and advance, and retreat and advance again, letting it flit from knee to hand, from hand to shoulder, to perch there singing its song to her, to stay with her or fly away again at its own will.
No—she would not appeal.... He must be free, as she had learned to be free.... In her garden she had flowers for him—thornless roses, fruits to satisfy a man’s hunger and thirst.... But he must pluck them for himself.... She would proffer nothing....
Yet she felt his intensity of unrest as if it were her own. In that hour a sixth sense was love-lent to her, so that she saw his mind, with its crowded, conflicting thoughts that ran hither and thither like ants, with stumblings and bewilderments, with futile crossings and re-crossings, yet always with a definite surge forward in one direction, in her direction. His turmoil affected her strangely: she found herself watching him placidly, with a sort of amused sympathy. She knew how indignantly he disliked not being sure about everything in the world. Poor Justin! It must be maddening to him not to be sure about himself....
All this on the surface of her mind: underneath, her whole soul was crying out to him, “Justin!—Justin!” calling his name, passionately, with insistent iteration, as a bird calls to its delaying mate.
And he, as if he heard, turned to her—
“Laura——”
“Yes, Justin?”