“I like that also,” he said, gazing with all a lover’s admiration into the sparkling, animated face. “You are rich in sweet names, as who has a better right?”
“Where is your curiosity?” she queried. “You have not even asked if I found the will.”
“No, to be sure! And you did?”
She shook her head. “I am quite convinced that it never existed.”
“I presume you are right there. But I have found my curiosity, and am burning with desire to hear how you came to discover the other paper, to find your aunt, and—and all the rest of it. You remember that I know absolutely nothing of your history from the time of your leaving Cranley to this, except the few moments that we were together in Mr. Lea’s library.”
“And I,” she returned, “am burning with desire to see those pictures, and to learn how they are to assist me in my quest. The story is too long to be told in an hour, Espy, with all the minute detail that I know you would require. So you shall have it at another time.”
“Will you let me see you home, and spend the evening with you?”
“Yes, if my aunt will spare me. She’s an invalid, and seems to value my society far beyond its real worth.”
“Then her estimate must be high indeed,” he responded in the same playful tone. “But since it is your wish, fair lady, I will now conduct you to the Art Gallery and show you the pictures.”
He led her out of the little dell up a flight of steps in the grassy bank, and together they traversed the winding paths and broad avenues that led to the Art Building, walking along side by side silently, yet only dimly conscious of the delicious summer air, the brilliant sunlight, the gay parterres, the crowds of people in the walks and passing up and down the broad, white marble steps of Memorial Hall as they ascended them.