“You mean do I live there? Well, no,” said Miss Riordan. “I just go there sometimes, with my friend.[Pg 221]”
“Ah!” said he. “There are so many delightful rambles—hilltop vistas which linger long in the memory.”
Miss Riordan and her friend were in the habit of taking the train at St. George and going direct to South Beach. The vistas on that journey had not appealed to her as memorable, nor had her rambles along the boardwalk been especially delightful; but she did not care to say so.
“I like the country,” she observed timidly, and was enchanted to see by his face that this pleased him.
He went on talking—which was what she desired. She would have sat there for hours, listening to him. Never had she heard such words, never imagined such refinement. She was filled with reverence that was almost awe. And when he talked poetry!
He quoted in his tremulous old voice:
“To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”
It was too much! Miss Riordan’s own thoughts did not lie too deep. Her tears welled up and brimmed over. She wiped her eyes with her perfumed handkerchief, and mutely shook her head.
Her companion had long since passed the age of such facile relief. He peered at her in kindly distress, unable to find assuaging words for a grief so inexplicable.
“Please wait a moment!” he said, and with a little difficulty got upon his feet. “Just wait a moment, please! I’ll be back directly.”