"I'll send you some. I have one or two things to see to indoors."
So Will and Rosamund sat alone, gazing idly at the summer sky, hearing the twitter of a bird, the hum of insects, whilst the scents of flower and leaf lulled them to a restful intimacy. Without a word of ceremony, Will used the matches that were brought him, and puffed a cloud into the warm air. They were talking of the beauties of this neighbourhood, of the delightful position of the house.
"You often come out to see my uncle, I suppose," said Rosamund.
"Not often, I'm seldom free, and not always in the humour."
"Not in the humour for this?"
"It sounds strange, doesn't it?" said Will, meeting her eyes. "When I'm here, I want to be here always; winter or summer, there's nothing more enjoyable—in the way of enjoyment that does only good. Do you regret Egypt?"
"No, indeed. I shall never care to go there again."
"Or the Pyrenees?"
"Have you seen them yet?" asked Rosamund.
Will shook his head.