"I am to do that?" asked Garda, looking at him.
He nodded. She went back, took Margaret's nearly finished wreath and all the rest of the gathered vines, and returning to the tomb, one arm loaded with them, the long sprays falling over her dress, she laid her other hand on Lucian's shoulder, and drawing him near the old stones, clung to him a little as if half afraid, bending her head at the same time as though reading the inscription which was supposed to be written there. The attitude was extremely graceful, a half-shrinking, half-fascinated curiosity. "This it?" she asked.
"Not the least in the world! What has Mr. Spenser to do with it?" said Margaret.
"He's the Arcadian shepherds."
"Let me place you." And Margaret drew her away.
Garda yielded passively. Nothing could have been sweeter than the expression of her face when Margaret had at length satisfied herself as regarded position. The girl stood behind the tomb, which rose a little higher than her knees; she rested one hand on its gray edge, holding the wreath on her other arm, which was pressed against her breast.
"You ought to be looking down," said Margaret.
But Garda did not look down.
"She is supposed to have read the inscription, and to be musing over it," suggested Lucian.
He fell to work immediately.