"Come in, Martha."
"Just to tell you that it's stopped raining, and if ye'll not take oil nor hot-water bags, the next best remedy for cobwebs in the brain is exercise."
The Poor Boy was glad to get out.
He went straight to Lord Harrow's house and walked with Joy for hours—up and down between the glorious roses on the terrace. The path was wide. They could walk side by side without danger of touching each other.
She was very grave that afternoon. So was he. It was hard that they should love each other so much and not be allowed to talk about it or hold hands. But the Poor Boy knew mighty well that if he touched her she would vanish.
"There's comfort," thought the Poor Boy, "in loving a spirit—even if it can never be quite the real thing. She will always be just as I see her now, no older, untroubled, gentle, and dear."
"She will always be just as I see her now, no older, untroubled, gentle and dear."
He said poetry to her, and hummed songs. She dropped a rose that she was carrying. He stooped to pick it up, remembered, and let it lie. They looked into each other's eyes, very sadly.