“Yes?” she said, but the thought had suddenly left him. It was a great longing––that he knew––a great desire, unsensed because unknown––but deep, deep.
“Yes––Rufus?” she breathed, leaning over; but the light had gone out of his eyes and he gazed at her strangely.
“It is nothing,” he murmured, “nothing. I––I have forgotten what I was going to say.” He sighed, and looked moodily at his feet. “The thoughts of a would-be poet,” he mused, cynically. “How valuable they are––how the world must long for them––when he even forgets them himself! I guess I’d better keep still and let you talk a while,” he ended, absently. But Lucy Ware sat gazing before her in silence.
“Isn’t it time we returned?” she asked, after a while. “You know I have a great deal to do.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Hardy, easily, “I’ll help you. What do you want to do––clean house?”
Lucy could have cried at her hero’s sudden lapse––from Parnassus to the scullery, from love to the commonplaces 240 of living; but she had schooled herself to bear with him, since patience is a woman’s part. Yet her honest blue eyes were not adapted to concealment and, furtively taking note of her distress, Hardy fell into the role of a penitent.
“Is my garden such a poor place,” he inquired gravely, “that you must leave it the moment we have come? You have not even seen Chupa Rosa.”
“Well, show me Chupa Rosa––and then we will go.”
She spoke the words reluctantly, rising slowly to her feet; and Hardy knew that in some hidden way he had hurt her, yet in what regard he could not tell. A vague uneasiness came over him and he tried awkwardly to make amends for his fault, but good intentions never yet crossed a river or healed a breach.
“Here is her nest,” he said, “almost above our seat. Look, Lucy, it is made out of willow down and spider webs, bound round and round the twig. Don’t you want to see the eggs? Look!” He bent the limb until the dainty white treasures, half buried in the fluffy down, were revealed––but still she did not smile.