I looked up into his face again.
"You've taught me a wonderful lesson," I said quietly.
"Ah," he replied--"it's all there--all there--the whole secret of it; if only I had the eyes to put it together."
If he only had the eyes? Have any of us the eyes? Have any of us the eyes?
When he had finished, he folded it slowly and put it back in his pocket.
"Well----?" he said.
His heart was beating with anticipation, with apprehension, with exaltation. With one beat he knew she must think it was good. It was his best. He had just done it and, when you have just done it, you are apt to think that. But with another beat, he felt she was going to say the conventional thing--to call it charming--to say--"But how nice." It would be far better if she said it was all wrong, that it struck a wrong note, that its composition was ill. One can believe that about one's work--but that it is charming, that it is nice--never!
For that moment Destiny swung in a balance, poised upon the agate of chance. What was she going to say? It all depended upon that. But she was so silent. She sat so still. Mice are still when you startle them; then, when they collect their wits, they scamper away.
Suddenly she rose to her feet.
"Will you be here in the Gardens to-morrow morning at this time," she said--"Then I'll tell you how very much I liked it."