“No, it is I,” said Vivienne, advancing after an instant of hesitation.
“Oh!” and he listlessly dropped his head on the grass.
“May I come and talk to you?” she asked. “I have longed to see you.”
“Yes, oh yes,” and he raised himself to a sitting posture. “I would get up and find you a seat if I could.”
“I can sit on this rug, thank you,” said Vivienne a little unsteadily.
She placed herself a short distance from him and looked at the sombre trees, the blue sky, the bluer Arm, where a tiny boat was crossing to the other side—anywhere but at the handsome, weary face, with its disfiguring spectacles.
“Have you on a white dress?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you have your favorite perfume about you,” he said with a half-smile; “or are they real roses?”
“Real ones,” and she put between his fingers a cluster of long, white, rose-shaded Rubens buds.