"I knew you would grow filial again," he interrupted, looking provoked, "instead of answering my question, which was—"
"Concerning your wife," I interrupted, in my turn; "what about her? She ought to be a proud woman, and it will be her own fault if she is not happy—ay, a very happy one."
He stroked my hair, and smiled quite pleased.
"I hope so," he said. "And yet you do not know what I mean to do for her, Daisy. I will paint her pictures that shall beat all the sonnets Petrarch ever sang to his Laura. I will win her fame and money: I will dress her as fine as any queen, until my field-flower shall outshine every flower of the garden. Above all, I will love her as knight of chivalry, or hero of romance, never loved his lady."
He spoke with jesting, yet very tender flattery. Love can take every tone, and bend any language to its own meaning.
I know not how long we lingered together in that garden. I was the first to become conscious of time.
"Where is Kate?" I asked.
"Forgotten," replied her low voice.
She stood beneath the ivied porch; her head a little inclined; one hand supporting her cheek. She looked down at us with a smile happy, yet not without sadness.
"Don't think I envy you the pleasant time," she resumed more gaily; "I like to see people enjoying themselves. When I meet couples in the lanes, I either get out of the way, or, if I cannot do that, I give them internally my benediction. 'Go on,' I think to myself, 'go on; you will never be happier, nor, perhaps, better than you are now. Go on.'"