"But I walk a good deal," she volunteered. "I've been all over that ledge you're painting."
"Isn't it beautiful?" he said. "It reminds me of a poem I read somewhere about the beauty of Appledore—that's on this coast somewhere, too, isn't it? You'd appreciate the poem, I'm sure—do you care for poetry?"
She piled the dishes on a tray, and carried it through the door before he had time to take it from her.
"No," she replied over her shoulder, "no, I don't care for it. It seems so—so smooth and shiny, somehow."
"Smooth? shiny?" he smiled as she came back, "I don't see."
Her high, rather indifferent voice fell in a slight embarrassment, as she explained: "Oh, I mean the rhymes and the verses—they're so even and like a clock ticking."
He took from his pocket a little red book. "Let me read you this," he said eagerly, "and see if you think it smooth and shiny. You must have heard and seen what this man tries to tell."
She stood awkwardly by the table, her scant, shapeless dress accentuating the straight lines of her slim figure, her hands clasped loosely before her, her face turned toward the window, which rattled now and then at the gusts of the rising wind. Willard held the little book easily between thumb and finger, and read in clear, pleasant tones, looking at her occasionally with interest:
"Fresh from his fastnesses, wholesome and spacious,
The north wind, the mad huntsman, halloos on his white hounds