"Oh, no," she said, still smiling; "nothing like that. Her heart is in the lowlands. You would consider Washington Square to be in the lowlands, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, I see," he said slowly. "You mean she's thinking of Leslie."
"Who knows? It was a venture on my part, that's all. She may be thinking of you, Mr. Booth."
"Or some chap in old England, that's more like it," he retorted. "She can't be thinking of me, you know. No one ever thinks of me when I'm out of view. Out of sight, out of mind. No; she's thinking of something a long way off—or some one, if you choose to have it that way."
"In that case, it isn't good for her to be thinking of things so remote. Shall we shout 'halloa the house'?"
He shot a glance at her and responded gallantly: "If she isn't thinking of us, why should we be thinking of her? Is it too near the dinner hour for you to let me sit here and rest before attempting to climb all those steps? And will you sit beside me, as the good Omar might have said?" He was fanning himself with his straw hat.
She searched his face for a second, a smiling but inscrutable expression in her eyes, and then sat down on the rustic bench at the foot of the terrace.
"Why didn't you let me send the motor for you?" she asked, as he took his place beside her.
"I mean to have an appetite in the country," he said, taking a deep, full breath. "Motors don't aid the appetite. Aeroplanes are better. I had a flight with a friend up in Westchester last week. I was very hungry when I came down."
"We'll all be flying before we really know it," said she. "Hetty tried it in France this spring. Have you seen Leslie this week?"