He could do nothing but carry the heavy thing away with him, and for the rest of the afternoon he sat before it, trying, for his dignity's sake, to pretend he liked the sound which deafened him to the other one he listened for, so that Theresa went home without his knowledge.
Morton stayed in Radstowe for a fortnight, and each day hurried his determination to win Theresa. Yet even to his fondness, to fancy her a wife, was to imagine the chaining of a dragon fly. The moods she showed him were as changeful as the colours in that creature's wings, her glances were as swift as its flight. Sometimes he would find her steady, as though she had settled on a flower, and at a word she would dart off again whither he could not follow. He could not always even watch her passage, it was so tortuous and so quick, and she left him puzzled, bewildered, uncertain of her, but the more certain of himself.
Every day they met decorously at luncheon, and often, if Neville were out, she made him welcome in the office. "You must let me help you."
"Of course." Her lifted eyebrows snubbed him delicately. "Will you read out this list for me? I want to type it. Oh, but faster than that! No, let me have it. I shall manage better alone."
He protested. "I'm very sorry. I wasn't thinking. Let me try again."
She was lenient: she knew he had been watching her.
"Very well." And when they had finished she nodded cheerfully. "With a little practice you might become quite useful."
"I believe you despise me for a drone."
"No, I don't despise you. And I haven't quite decided what you are."
He looked up from the paper in his hand. "I hope you will make a decision in my favour," he said, and his voice was vibrant.