"It's charming ... charming ... charming," said her mother, enthusiastically.
"Oh, I won't ask, but I'm longing to see it. Mother, what do you think it will be? Oh, but you know, so I mustn't ask you to guess. Oh, I do hope Margaret and Monica will like it."
"It's charming ... charming ... and now go to sleep."
Her mother kissed her good night, and when she was gone Pauline took from under her pillow the crystal ring.
"However nice the new one is," she said, "I shall always love you best, you secret ring."
Then she got out of bed and took from her desk the manuscript book bound with a Siennese end-paper of shepherds and shepherdesses and rosy bowers, that was to be her birthday present to him.
"What poetry will he write in you about me, you funny empty book?" she asked, and inscribed it—
For Guy with all of his Pauline's love.
The book was left open for the roaming letters to dry themselves without a smudge, because there was never any blotting-paper in this desk that was littered with childish things. Then Pauline went to the window; but a gusty wind of late Summer was rustling the leaves and she could not stay dreaming on the night as in May she had dreamed. There was something faintly disquieting about this hollow wind which was like an envoy threatening the trees with the furious Winter to come, and Pauline shivered.
"Summer will soon be gone," she whispered, "but nowadays it doesn't matter, because all days will be happy."