"Distinguished!" he exclaimed. "In presence of these elms and this house built for all time, and these eternal colors, how could mere mortal be distinguished?"
It was not until the next morning that he had a chance to talk with her alone. He rose early and went out before breakfast. He strolled through the woods back of the house until he came to a pavilion with a creek rushing steeply down past it toward Otter Lake. In the pavilion he found Neva with a great heap of roses in her lap, another on the table, another on the bench. On her bright hair was a huge garden hat, its broad streamers of pink ribbon flowing upon her shoulders.
She dropped her shears and watched him with the expression in her eyes that he had surprised there, as they were coming from the station in the motor. "May I ask," said he, "what is the meaning of that look?"
"Did you sleep well?" parried she.
"Without a dream."
"I don't know," replied she—"Let us have breakfast here—you and I.... Washington!" she called.
There rose from a copse below, near the brim of the creek, a small colored boy, barefooted, bareheaded, with no garments but a blue shirt and a pair of blue cotton jean trousers. She sent him off to the house to tell them to bring breakfast. And soon a maid appeared with a tray whose chief burden was a heating apparatus for coffee and milk.
"I've heard you say you detested cold coffee," said Neva. "Your frown when I suggested breakfast out here was premature."
She scattered and heaped the roses into an odorous, dew-sprinkled mat of green and pink and white, in the center of the rustic table. Then she served the coffee. It was real coffee, and the milk was what is called cream in many parts of the world. "Brother Tom has a model farm," she explained. "These eggs were laid this morning."
"So they were," exclaimed Boris, as he broke one. His eyes were sparkling; all that was best in his looks and in his nature was irradiating from him. Her sweet, lovely face, her delicate fresh costume, the sight and odor of the roses, of the forest all round them, the melody of the descending waters, and the superb coffee, crisp rolls, and freshest of fresh eggs— "You criticise me for my appreciation of the sensuous side of life, my dear friend," said he. "But, tell me, is there anywhere anything more delicious, more inspiring than this breakfast?"