"The elms are a thousand years old," I repeated and repeated to myself, while she glided from topic to topic with Desmond, whose conversation indicated that he was as cultivated as any ordinary gentleman, when the Pickersgill element was not apparent. The form of the garden-goddess faded, the sun had gone below the garden wall. The garden grew dusk, and the elms began to nod their tops at me. I became silent, listening to the fall of the plummet, which dropped again and again from the topmost height of that lordly domain, over which shadows had come. Were they sounding its foundations?
My eyes roved the garden, seeking the nucleus of an emotion which beset me now—not they, but my senses, formed it—in a garden miles away, where nodded a row of elms, under which Charles Morgeson stood.
"I am glad you're here, my darling, do you smell the roses?"
"Are you going?" I heard Mrs. Hepburn say in a far-off voice. I was standing by the door.
"Yes, madam; the summer parlor does not delay the sunset."
"Come again. When do you leave Belem?"
"In few days."
Desmond made a grimace, and went to the window.
"Who returns with you," she continued, "Ben? He likes piloting."
"I hope he will; I came here to please him."