"She was very unkind to him. Her name was Lynette."
"Well?"
"You may call me Lynette."
Then she turned swiftly and left him. He hoped she would look back. But she did not.
IV
Moving rapidly through the orchard, the girl passed on to a square white house, and slipped upstairs to her room. Her heart was beating furiously, her eyes were bright and her head bewilderingly full of Indians, teepees, pistols, horses and Mounted Policemen, Mounted Policemen everywhere.... Impulsively she dropped to her knees at the window, head on arms, and let the evening breeze ruffle her gleaming hair. Her eyes were full of dreams....
That night, when she had gone to bed, the visions of the afternoon came back to her and, getting up again, she resumed her place at the window. The darkness was more soothing than the sunset and the light breeze cooler than at dusk. For what seemed hours she knelt there, trying to put aside the pictures in her mind, yet glad they would not leave her. Beneath them all, something she had once read ran persistently through her head, a bit of poetry, going something like this:
When may Love come to me?
In the cold grey hush of the dawn,
In the fierce brilliance of noonday,
In the soft warm blue of twilight
Or the depth of night.
Perhaps in the freshness of Spring,
Perhaps in the fulness of Summer,
Or the blazing glories of Autumn
Or the white silence of Winter,
Then Love may come to you!
How may Love come to me?
Like a monk, colourless, solemn,
Or perhaps a little boy, weeping,
Or a sinner, pleading repentance,
Or a poet, listlessly dreaming,
Or a soldier, radiant, glowing,
Passionate, terrible, merciless,
Girdled with lightning and thunder.
Hailed with a pealing of trumpets,
Thus may Love come to you!
So the words ran. From them, boldly, perplexingly, continuously, these few phrases stood out before her: