She was provocative, inscrutable, as of old, this girl-woman whose grey eyes and flower-like face were all in keeping with the russet autumn peace.
“About all but one,” said Hardcastle.
“And that one’s here with me. He’s here with me where we met first. Do you remember?”
Hardcastle remembered, in savage earnest. She had not changed in these five years, so far as slender beauty went, and the nameless charm that drew men to her—drew all men except one.
“I was a dreamer then—and younger.”
“It’s good to dream at times. I weave a good deal of dream-stuff into my baskets as I make them—and wonder what happens when a simple lass up-dale sets her arm under the handle. Queer thoughts will come to her.”
“They will,” said the Master, rough and stubborn—“but the thoughts will be good for your trade. Never put all your eggs into one basket, for fear the withies break. So they’ll buy two, when next you come.”
“You’ll never forgive?” said Nita Langrish, her voice soft as Crooning Water’s where it lapped the archway of the bridge below them.
“I’ve done better, Nita—I’ve forgotten.”
She glanced up to learn if it was true. He stood there unyielding, utterly remote; and a great longing came to Nita to chain and hold this man who had put her out of his life.