He tried to make it interesting but when he came to the point there was really little to tell.
"But that isn't all. You haven't told me why people are so confident of your future."
"I don't know that. Sometimes I wonder whether they've the right to be confident."
"You've been very successful, haven't you?"
He shook his head. "I'm still poor—so poor you'd probably call it indecent—with my way to make. It seems a very slow way, too."
There was a hint of disappointment in the quick glance she turned upon him.
"Have I lost caste?"
"No. I was just wondering— But you're going to be successful, aren't you? Everybody can't be mistaken in you. Tell me what you want to do."
So he told her of his love for his work, of his studies and sketches, of the beautiful churches that he hoped he should some day build.
It was early October; which is not unimportant. Before them opened a vista of wooded hills, tinted by the first frosts dull yellows and maroons, here and there a flash of rich crimson. A thin haze lay over the land, violet in the distance, about them an almost imperceptible golden. The voices of other players came softly to them, subdued and lazy as an echo. Fading hillsides, dying leaves, blue horizons—autumn, too, has its wistful charm, as potent as spring to bring young hearts together.