“You hardly know that. You have merely a vague far away notion. All your woman’s lore is borrowed, and you are only half awake. Your mind, your mental conception of things, has outrun everything else. If the other part ever caught up you would be a wonderful woman.”
Something in his tone made her take her will between her teeth.
“You will teach me,” she said imperiously, “as long as we are both alive.”
“Yes, if I am a scoundrel. But don’t let us talk about that now, please. I will be happy, too. Come, let us get out of this. It is damp and we will get rheumatism, which is not romantic. Let us go home and sit in your boudoir. I feel as if I should like to be surrounded by the conventionalities of life for a time. One feels too primitive in this forest.”
CHAPTER XIII.
The next morning she awoke with a sudden pang of sympathy for Mary Gordon. Her intuitions were keener than they had ever been. She turned restlessly, then sprang out of bed and rang for her maid.
She went out into the garden and gathered a basket of roses for the breakfast-table. As she entered the court, the dew on her hair, her damp frock clinging to her bust and arms, Clive was standing by the fountain, and alone. His eyes had been dull, but the light sprang to them as he went forward to meet her. He half held out his arms. She dropped the basket into them with a little laugh.
“Come into the dining-room,” she said, “and help me arrange them.”
The water was ready in the silver and crystal bowls. She disposed the roses with a few practised touches, then turned and flung her arms about Clive and kissed him.
“What is the matter,” she asked. “Didn’t you sleep?”