"I 'll carve your name while you 're gone!"
"No, you won't!"
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know it!—Voilà!"
And before he could stop her she had tripped into the house.
Jack sat for a moment in a sort of silent rapture.
Then all he said to himself was "By George!" three times repeated; and if you don't know what that exclamation meant, I 'm sure I can't tell you.
Marjolaine had left the "Adventures of Telemachus" on the seat in the Gazebo. Under ordinary circumstances Jack would have avoided picking up a book; but this was her book; it had been in her hands; her eyes had looked at it; it was not so much a book as a part of the little goddess; so he picked it up tenderly and tenderly opened it. There, on the fly-page, was a name.—"Lucy Pryor"—Of course! Her name! Lucy Pryor—just the sort of pretty, simple name she would have. Aha! but now he'd astonish her! She should find he had carved her name, after all! Out came his sailor's knife, and to work he went, and as he carved he sang a little song to himself, the words of which were, "Lucy, Lucy, Lucy Pryor." He was not a poet.
The Eyesore came slowly round the corner. Seeing the little lady was no longer on the seat, he drew his line out of the water—I need hardly record the fact that there was no fish on it. With a sigh he seated himself on his box, with his back to the Walk; patiently he placed a new worm on the empty hook, and in a moment he was immersed in his contemplative occupation. There was utter silence in the Walk.
Then the upstairs window of Number Five was thrust open and Mr. Jerome Brooke-Hoskyn, at his ease in his shirt-sleeves, and enjoying a church-warden pipe, leant out. He was evidently conversing with his wife, and was in his tenderest mood.