She was right! I didn't know the jolly thing, that was a fact, but somehow I liked the swing of it. She went on, and struck me with another remark. By Jove, she seemed to have forgotten about the jolly song and I was devilish glad, for I had rather hear her talk, don't you know.
"'In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours—'"
"If?" I ejaculated reproachfully, hitching nearer. But she only smiled, and continued her remark:
"'Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers;
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.'"
"Oh!" I uttered. For, by Jove, she had said it—the thing I had felt all the time and couldn't express; the something that had been with me all along in connection with herself. And here she had the jolly idea pat upon her tongue! I just blinked at her admiringly—didn't dare speak, you know; afraid I'd break the thread of what's-its-name.
She went on telling me something about a lover's lute, and it was hard not to speak then, for I did so want to ask what a jolly lute was. And then some remark about specks in garnered fruit—here her line of thought had been changed, I knew, by some remark of the gardener outside: something about worms and the orchard. However, I just chirped up a nod and listened as attentively as though she had gone right on. She was busy with her hair now, but with her mind still on the worm, murmured abstractedly:
"'That rotting inward slowly moulders all.'"
And just here, with a little clatter, her back comb struck the floor, bounding to the other side of the pavilion. As I scrambled to get it, her voice lifted through a choke of laughter:
"'It is not worth the keeping; let it go!'"
The idea!