Mr. Gower shakes his head emphatically. No, he does not know the creepy-creepy feel.
"Besides," goes on Dulce, confidentially, "one can see the person one is conversing with so much better at a little distance. Don't you agree with me?"
"Don't I always agree with you?" says Mr. Gower, gloomily.
"Well, then, don't look so discontented, it makes me think you are only answering me as you think I want to be answered, and no woman could stand that."
Silence. The short day is already coming to a close. A bitter wind has sprung from the East and is now flitting with icy ardor over the grass and streamlet; through the bare branches of the trees, too, it flies, creating music of a mournful kind as it rushes onward.
"Last night I dreamt of you," says Stephen, at last.
"And what of me?" asks she, bending slightly down over him, as he lies at her feet in his favorite position.
"This one great thing: I dreamt that you loved me. I flattered myself in my dreams, did I not?" says Gower, with an affectation of unconcern that does not disguise the fear that is consuming him lest some day he shall prove his dream untrue.
"Now what is love, I will thee tell,
It is the fountain and the well
Where pleasure and repentance dwell,"
quotes she, gaily, with a quick, trembling blush.