“Is the work very hard?” she asked.
“No,” said Sargent. “I like it—very much!”
There was a long silence. She was still standing beside the boards, running her delicate fingers along the edges, with her eyes thoughtfully downcast. The shifting sunshine, filtering through the leafy branches outside, threw a wondrous light upon her gleaming dark hair and her pale, clear features. Somehow it hurt Jerry to look at her. There was something about her, some intangible shadow over her young face, which made him feel sure that she had endured much, and had endured it with fortitude and courage.
“The poor little thing!” he thought. “Shut up here in this dismal hole, with that dragon! Oh, the poor, poor little thing!”
He suddenly realized that he was in his shirt sleeves. With a hasty apology, he put on his coat.
“You know,” he said, “I’m not really a carpenter.”
“I knew you weren’t,” said she. “I knew you were—well, I mean, I knew you weren’t.”
Another silence.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked. “I’d be—oh!”
“What’s the matter?” cried Jerry.