She felt deliciously lazy—too lazy even to concentrate on any of the novels which Cara had brought her. She had no particular craving at the moment either to be thrilled by adventures or harrowed by the partings of lovers. But a slim volume of verse held her attention intermittently. It was more suited to her idle humour, she reflected. You could read one of the brief lyrics and let the book slide down on to your knee and enjoy the quivering blue and gold, and soft, murmurous, chirruping sounds of the summer’s day, while your mind played round the idea embodied in the poem.
She turned the pages idly, skimming desultorily through the verses till she came to a brief two-verse lyric which caught and held her interest. It was a very simple little song, but it appealed to the shining optimism and belief which was a fundamental part of her own nature—to that brave, sturdy confidence which had brought her, still buoyant and unspoiled and sweet, through the vicissitudes of a girlhood that might very easily have cradled an embittered woman.
“Beyond the hill there’s a garden,
Fashioned of sweetest flowers,
Calling to you with its voice of gold,
Telling you all that your heart may hold,
Beyond the hill there’s a garden fair—
My garden of happy hours.
“Dream-flowers grow in that garden,
Blossom of sun and showers,
There, withered hopes may bloom anew,
Dreams long forgotten shall all come true,
Beyond the hill there’s a garden fair—
My garden of happy hours!”
[Footnote: This song, “Dream-Flowers,” has been set to music by Margaret Pedler. Published by Edward Schuberth & Co., 11 East 22nd Street, New York.]
Ann’s thoughts turned towards Eliot Coventry, the man who had told her he was “old enough to have lost all his illusions.” Need one ever be as old as that, she wondered rather wistfully? Surely for each one of us there should be a garden where our dream-flowers grow—dream-flowers which one day we shall pluck and find they have become beautiful realities.
She was reading the verses through for the second time when a shadow seemed to move betwixt her and the sun, darkening the page. She glanced up quickly to find Coventry himself standing beside her.
“I hope I haven’t startled you,” he said. “Maria told me you were in the garden and left me to find my own way here. I think”—smiling—“some cakes were in imminent danger of burning if she took her eye off them, so to speak.”
Ann shook hands and hospitably indicated a garden chair.
“Won’t you sit down?” she said, though a trifle nervously. “Or are you in a hurry?” It had startled her to find the man of whom she had at that moment been thinking close beside her.
“I’m in no hurry,” he said, sitting down. “I came to inquire how you were getting on.”