“And you read here. May I ask what you were reading when I interrupted you?”
“A novel, of course,” answered the Mayflower, with a blush.
“Yes, of course; that is only natural.”
The Mayflower looked quickly down at the good-looking brown face raised to hers, as John Temple said this, for something in his tone made her think he was amusing himself at her expense.
“Yes, it is only natural,” she answered, with a spirit; “I like to read of lives that I suppose are very often drawn from life.”
“With all its tragedies, its comedies, its subterfuges, and its lies—it’s always the same old story.”
“But there are some lives in which there are no tragedies—nor even comedies?”
“About these, if there be such, there are no stories to tell.”
Just at this moment there appeared coming down the hill through the trees behind them the stalwart form of a young man, carrying a gun, and followed by two dogs. He paused a moment when he saw the white dress of the Mayflower, and smiled; but in another moment, perceiving John Temple lying on the grass at her feet, he frowned.