“I might as well not exist, for all she is aware of me,” he said to himself bitterly. Nevertheless, when she drew near he said brightly:
“Have you noticed how the thousands of dry twigs between the trunks make a brown mist, a brume?”
She looked at him suddenly as if interrupted.
“H’m? Yes, I see what you mean.”
She smiled at him, because of his bright boyish tone and manner.
“That’s the larch fog,” he laughed.
“Yes,” she said, “you see it in pictures. I had not noticed it before.”
He shook the tree on which his hand was laid.
“It laughs through its teeth,” he said, smiling, playing with everything he touched.
As they went along she caught swiftly at her hat; then she stooped, picking up a hat-pin of twined silver. She laughed to herself as if pleased by a coincidence.