He greeted her in the somewhat sulky manner to which she was accustomed. He was a young man with a grievance, and he looked at her as though to-day it were personified in her.
She answered him cheerfully: “What a wonderful day!”
“The day’s all right,” he said.
Holding the primroses to her nose, she looked round. Catkins were swaying lightly on the willows, somewhere out of sight a tiny runnel of water gurgled, the horse ate noisily, the grass had a vividness of green like the concentrated thought of spring.
“I don’t see how anything can be wrong this morning,” she said.
“Ah, you’re lucky to think so,” he answered, gazing at her clear, pale profile.
“Well,” she turned to ask patiently, “what is the matter with you?”
“I’m worried.”
“Has a cow died?” And ignoring his angry gesture, she went on: “I don’t think you take enough care of your property. Whenever I ride here I find you strolling about miserably, with a dog.”
“That’s your fault.”