“True, true,” he would admit; “it is all true that you say.” And more quietly, as she went on with an ingenuity of entreaty and explication: “You are right, Trastevera, you are always right;” and at last: “I thank you for this, Trastevera; now I see what I must do.”
He stood up, putting her aside, for she had got down on the ground attempting to stay the rocking of his hammer as she would have stopped the wavering of his mind. He stretched himself under the redwood and rapped so loudly with his weapon on the trunk that the squirrels and nuthatches in the upper stories came out to see, and wood bees droned discontentedly within.
“It is true that she may not be loved during the time of her Wardship,” said he; “there must be an end to that, or worse will come of it.”
“And you will end it, Mancha, for your honor’s sake?”
“As soon as may be; I have dawdled too long. Where is Herman?”
“With Persilope at Lower Fern. What do you want of him?”
“What you wished: to put an end to this business of the Ward.”
“Mancha, Mancha! That is not what I meant. You must put an end to your loving!”
“Does loving end?”
Trastevera gave up.