“Will,” said she. “And when you feel, Will, that on the whole, Will, you’ve had strawberries enough, Will, quite to destroy your appetite, perhaps it would be as well if we should go in to breakfast, Willie.”
IV.
They were seated on the turf, under a great tree, in the park, amid a multitude of bright-coloured cushions, Johannah, Will, and Madame Dornaye. It was three weeks later—whence it may be inferred that he had abandoned his resolution to “go back to town to-morrow.” He was smoking a cigarette; Madame Dornaye was knitting; Johannah, hatless, in an indescribable confection of cream-coloured muslin, her head pillowed in a scarlet cushion against the body of the tree, was gazing off towards the sea with dreamy eyes.
“Will,” she called languidly, by-and-by.
“Yes?” he responded.
“Do you happen by any chance to belong to that sect of philosophers who regard gold as a precious metal?”
“From the little I’ve seen of it, I am inclined to regard it as precious—yes,” he answered.
“Well, then, I wouldn’t be so lavish of it, if I were you,” said she.
“If you don’t take care,” said he, “you’ll force me to admit that I haven’t an idea of what you’re driving at.”
“I’m driving at your silence. You’re as silent as a statue. Please talk a little.”