Gault took her basket from her and dropped into place at her side. The high rows of houses protected them from the wind, and only as they crossed the open spaces at the intersection of streets did it catch them, and, for a moment, play boisterously with them.
The girl seemed in excellent spirits. He had noticed this with every recurring visit. Looking back upon her as she was when he had first known her, care-worn, pale, and quiet, she seemed now like a different person. Her glance sparkled with animation, her voice was full of that thrilling quality which some women’s voices acquire in moments of happiness. She was a hundred times more fatally alluring than she had been in the beginning. He knew now that while he was with her his reason would always be in abeyance to his heart.
“You seem to be in very good spirits,” he said to her, not without a feeling of personal grievance that some cause of which he was ignorant should add so to her lightness of heart.
“I am,” she answered. “I’m in very good spirits. I’m quite happy. It’s something lovely to feel so gay in your heart, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know; maybe I’ve never felt so.”
“Oh, what nonsense!” she cried, looking at him reproachfully. “You, who have always had just what you wanted! I used to be afraid of you at first. It seemed rather awful to know anybody who’d always had things go exactly their way.”
He ignored the remark and said:
“What’s making you happy? Tell it to me, and then perhaps I’ll get a little reflection of it.”
“I don’t know that it’s any one especial thing. Happiness comes when lots of little things fit nicely together. I never had one big thing in a lump to make me happy. I tell you what’s doing a good deal toward it. Father and I are”—she made an instant’s pause and then said—“doing so much better; financially, I mean. It’s such a relief! You don’t know.”