XXV
They were standing by a great rock at the foot of the cliff. The afternoon had slipped away and the harbor was full of changing light, but the artist’s back was turned to it. He was looking into two little round mirrors of light. Perhaps he saw the harbor reflected there. He saw everything else—the whole round world, swinging in space, and life and death. He bent closer to them. “Why didn’t you write?” reproachfully.
“Uncle William wouldn’t let me.”
“Uncle William!”
She nodded. “He told me not to write. He said you would get well faster if you had something to bother you.” The demure face was full of glinting lights. “He seemed to think that is what we are made for—mostly. He’s an old dear!” she added.
“He is!” He had gained possession of the quick-moving hand. “I shall keep you now that I have you—”
“Yes.”
“—for that very purpose!”
She smiled quietly. “I’ll try to live up to it. You took the prize, you know.”
He caged the other hand. “Bother the prize! There’s only one thing I want.”