He laughed. "That would really be very amusing," he said, stooping down and neatly putting his scattered things together.
Ingeborg flushed. "But—that's rather cruel fun, isn't it, that you're making of me now?" she murmured.
"What?" he asked, straightening himself to look at her.
The light had gone out of her face.
"What? Why—didn't I tell you my picture of you is to be the portrait of a spirit?"
He pounced on his things and gathered them up in his arms.
"Come along," he said impatiently, "and be intelligent. Let me beg you to be intelligent. Come along. I suppose I'm to go in the punt. What's in it? Books by the dozen. What's this? Eucken? Keats? Pragmatism? O Lord!"
"Why O Lord?" she asked, getting in and picking up the paddle while he gave the punt a vigorous shove off and jumped on to it as it went. She was radiant again. She was tingling with pride and joy. He really meant it about the picture. He hadn't made fun of her. On the contrary.... "Why O Lord?" she asked. "You said that, or something like it, last time because I didn't read."
"Well, now I say it because you do," he said, crouching at the opposite end watching her movements as she paddled.
"But that doesn't seem to have much consistency, does it?" she said.