“Thanks!” he said, curtly. “You really can be very useful when you like!”
She laughed and moved away, stepping quickly over the grass as though bent on making distance between herself and him.
“Where are you going?” called the Philosopher, irritably. “Don’t skip about like that! Can’t you be quiet for five minutes?”
She came back slowly and stood still, with a quaint air of mock humility.
“You’re playing!” said the Philosopher, severely. “And I’m not always in a playing mood.”
“No?”
The question slid through a little round O of a mouth that suggested kisses. The Philosopher quickly averted his eyes.
“No!” he answered, with increased sternness. “I’m in a thinking mood to-day.”
He walked on, and she walked with him; her soft linen gown made a little “frou-frou” sound among the grasses that was pleasant and companionable. Her footsteps were too light to be heard at all, and presently the Philosopher, through two whiffs of his pipe, caught himself smiling.
“What a little goose it is!” he half murmured. “Dear little sentimental goose!”