"No, no; you must not abuse her," says Monica: so he becomes silent.
She is standing very close to the trunk of the old beech, half leaning against it upon one arm which is slightly raised. She has no gloves, but long white mittens that reach above her elbow to where the sleeves of her gown join them. Through the little holes in the pattern of these kindly mittens her white arms can be seen gleaming like snow beneath the faint rays of the early moon. With one hand she is playing some imaginary air upon the tree's bark.
As she so plays, tiny sparkles from her rings attract his notice.
"Those five little rings," says Desmond, idly, "always remind me of the five little pigs that went to market,—I don't know why."
"They didn't all go to market," demurely. "One of them, I know, stayed at home."
"So he did. I remember now. Somehow it makes me feel like a boy again."
"Then, according to Hood, you must be nearer heaven than you were a moment ago."
"I couldn't," says Desmond, turning, and looking into her beautiful eyes. "My heaven has been near me for the last half-hour." If he had said hour he would have been closer to the truth.
A soft, lovely crimson creeps into her cheeks, and her eyes fall before his for a moment. Then she laughs,—a gay, mirthful laugh, that somehow puts sentiment to flight.
"Go on about your little pigs," she says, glancing at him with coquettish mirth.