"I should leave it alone," said André. "You'll only make it worse. You're much too honest. Besides, I love the country, and I—I think," she added dreamily, "I can understand."
"Can you?"
The eagerness in Anthony's voice was arrestingly pathetic, and André started at the effect of her idle words.
"I—I think so. I've given water to a thirsty plant…. I suppose the gratitude of a landscape…"
"That's it," said Lyveden excitedly. "You've got it in one. The place is so pathetically grateful for every stock and stone you set straight, that you just can't hold your hand. And all the time the work's so fascinating that you don't deserve any thanks. You seem to get deeper in debt every day. You're credited with every cheque you draw. If I stopped, it'd haunt me."
"It is plain," said André, "that, when you die, 'Gramarye' will be graven upon your heart. All the same, are you sure you were meant for this? Aren't there things in life besides the straightening of stocks and stones?"
"The War's over," said Lyveden.
"I know. But there was a world before 1914. I think your occupation's wonderful, but isn't it a little unnatural—unfair to yourself and others—to give it the whole of your life? As estates go, I fancy the possibilities of Eden were even more amazing than those of Gramarye—I daresay you won't admit that, but then you're biassed—and yet the introduction of Eve was considered advisable."
"With the result that …"
Miss Strongi'th'arm laughed.