Benedicta was, just then. She was listening to young Dumall with shining eyes and parted lips, entranced by his words. She thought he was marvelous.
Well, perhaps he was. Another listener might have found him a little dogmatic and immature; but, after all, he did think, and he did imagine, and he had a rare and fine admiration for the perished beauties of the ancient world. He knew his facts, too. He had studied honestly and intelligently.
When he rose to go, darkness fell upon Benedicta.
“Aren’t you staying in the house?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. She knew very well that he was looking at her, although she seemed unaware of it. “I have to go into the city to-morrow, to buy some books; but I’ll be here on Sunday afternoon again. I—I hope I’ll see you then!”
IV
On Sunday evening Benedicta pretended that she was sleepy; and when Mrs. Wilkinson told her to go to bed, and get a good night’s rest, she assented willingly. As a matter of fact, she thought that very likely she would never go to sleep again. Certainly she didn’t want to waste time in that way.
She sat down in the dark by the window, where she could look out over the garden, but she didn’t see it. She had abolished time and space, and was looking into the middle of the afternoon that had passed.
She saw herself and Francis Dumall sitting on a fallen tree in the woods, where the sun shone through the leaves in queer bright spots on his hair, like gold coins. He was dressed in an old belted coat and tweed trousers that didn’t match, but his shabby clothes were worn with his own air of careless distinction. He was hatless. Sometimes he looked like a boy, and sometimes very much of a man.
He had talked about books. He had talked in an enthralling, a marvelous way. He had made Benedicta resolve to begin to read books herself.