"Yes, I suppose so," I answered boldly enough; "only, of course, a different kind of quiet, you know; for if the garden is still, that's because—well, there isn't anybody mowing the grass, or there isn't any wind or—oh, the quietness of a person sitting in a garden is quite a different thing."
She kept looking at me all the time I was saying this, and then replied slowly:
"I see; you don't want me just to sit still."
"Certainly not," I answered. "I want you to be—"
Her eyes suddenly became dreamy, and I felt much more at ease.
"It's like David and the sunshine," she went on.
"Yes, just exactly; you are to be the spirit of the garden, the human symbol of its mood—its real meaning," and happy that she understood the way I felt about David, I fell to laying on the paint in broad, easy strokes, wondering how I could ever imitate the emerald transparency of the trees.
She did not speak again and presently my glance returned to her. She was holding David's cap in her hand and looking out—nowhere, I guess. I stopped my work, stepping back to study it and survey the scene.
"I'm glad you like my garden," she finally said, smiling; and such a smile as she gave me—it was like a stream of golden haze on a white flower, a change very subtle, and yet so striking.
"Your garden is the very best place yet I've found to work in," I said, well pleased. "It is just as fine a place as the Forest of Fontainebleau, and Corot did some great masterpieces there."