“Yes,” he said, “very much handsomer than I could ever hope to make it.”
A slow, deep red rose to her face.
“Give it to me!” she demanded.
“If you will stand in the same position until I have drawn another—certainly,” he returned.
He was fully convinced that when she repeated the attitude there would be added to it a look of consciousness.
When she settled into position and caught at the bough again, he watched in some distaste for the growth of the nervously complaisant air, but it did not appear. She was unconsciousness itself.
It is possible that Rebecca Noble had never been so happy during her whole life as she was during this one summer. Her enjoyment of every wild beauty and novelty was immeasurably keen. Just at this time to be shut out, and to be as it were high above the world, added zest to her pleasure.
“Ah,” she said once to her lover, “happiness is better here—one can taste it slowly.”
Fatigue seemed impossible to her. With Lennox as her companion she performed miracles in the way of walking and climbing, and explored the mountain fastnesses for miles around. Her step grew firm and elastic, her color richer, her laugh had a buoyant ring. She had never been so nearly a beautiful woman as she was sometimes when she came back to the cabin after a ramble, bright and sun-flushed, her hands full of laurel and vines.
“Your gown of 'hodden-gray' is wonderfully becoming, Beck,” Lennox said again and again with a secret exulting pride in her.