“Get along with you.”
“I wanted to make a sketch of you leaning over the boatside with your lapful of water-lilies; I wish I had.”
“I wish you had, too; you wrote a little poem instead. It was very pretty, but I should have liked the picture better. You gave me the poem next day when you came in to lunch. You had lunch at the bar, and I was so cross with you because you said I hadn't wiped the glass. It was all done to annoy me because I had been talking to that tall, rather stout young man, with the dark moustache, whom you were so jealous of. Don't you remember?”
“Yes, I remember; and I believe it was that fellow who prevented you from coming out with me again.”
“No, it wasn't; but don't speak so loud, all these people are listening to you.”
Frank met the round stare of the girls; and, turning from the dormant curiosity of the old woman, he said—
“Do you remember the locks, how frightened you were; you had never been through a lock before; and the beautiful old red brick house showing upon the lofty woods; and coming back in the calm of the evening, passing the different boats, the one where the girls lay back in the arms of the young men, the flapping sail, and the dreamy influences of the woods where we climbed and looked into space over the railing?”
“At the green-table—don't you remember?”
“Yes, I remember every hour of that day; we had lunch at the 'Roebuck.'”
“You haven't spoken of the lady we saw there. Lady Something—I forget what you said her name was; you said she had been making up to you.”