"Don't you like me to enjoy myself?"
"Not with other men."
"Oh, that's selfish!"
"Maybe," said Glen.
There was silence, broken only by the thrumming of the mandolin and the twitter of birds from the recesses of the trees.
"It's sad, the way those blossoms fall on you, Indiana."
Indiana shook the branches, and peeped out laughing through the thick shower which followed.
"You look like a part of the tree," said Glen. "Like a wood-sprite, a Dryad—or something."
"Or something," said Indiana, "is very illustrative to the mind."
"I like you best as you are here about the farm," continued Glen, watching her steadily with his dark eyes, and continuing his eternal thrumming. "Just as you are now, in that simple dress your mother made for you, with your hair hanging like that—I always liked your hair hanging—do you remember, Indiana?"