Margot noticed that, as he went, he turned from time to time quick, scrutinising glances at Ron’s face, as though trying to satisfy a doubt, and classify him in his own mind. Evidently the lad’s serious, somewhat pedantic manner of replying had invested him with a new interest, but when he spoke again it was only in reference to the afternoon’s expedition itself.
“I am not going to take you far,” he announced. “I object to walking, on principle. What I maintain is, that we were never intended to walk! If we had been, we should have had four legs, instead of two. I never walk if I can possibly induce something else to carry me. And climbing is another mistake. What is it that one admires about mountains? Their height and grandeur! Very well, then, where is the point of vantage from which to view them? The base, of course. Climb up to the top, and you lose the whole effect, to say nothing of chucking away your valuable breath. See that little path winding up the slope? That leads to the moors, and when you are once on the moors you can walk about on the level all day long, if you are so disposed, and the air goes to the head of even a lazy old fellow like myself, and makes me quite gay and frisky. You two youngsters can go on ahead and engage in light conversation, while I puff along in the rear. At my age and bulk even the most witty conversation palls when climbing a hillside. When you get to the end of the footpath sit down and wait till I arrive, and take no notice of me till I get my wind. Then we’ll start fair. Off with you!”
Margot ran forward, laughing, and she and Ron were soon scrambling up the hillside, side by side.
“That’s a good fellow. I like him! He will be very interesting when one gets beneath the surface,” pronounced the boy thoughtfully.
Margot nodded emphatically.
“I’m going to love him! I feel it in my bones, and he is going to love me too, but unfortunately he’s the wrong man. He says that his brother hates women, and will do all he can to avoid me, so you must take things into your own hands, Ron! I can’t help you, so you must help yourself. You will have to cultivate his acquaintance, and get him to take you about, and talk to him, and try to get intimate. You will, won’t you? Promise me that you will!”
She looked with anxiety into the lad’s face as she spoke, for previous experience had proved that Ron possessed the full share of those failings which are most characteristic of his temperament: a sudden cooling of interest at critical moments; a shirking of responsibility, an inclination to drift. It was a part of the artistic nature, which had an irritating effect on more practical mortals. Now, as she feared, he remained as placidly unmoved by the intelligence as if it had no bearing whatever on his own prospects.
“Oh, all right. I’ll see! You can’t rush things, if a fellow keeps out of your way. Our opening will come in time, if we leave it to chance and don’t worry. I believe I am going to do really good work here, Margot! I had an idea last night, after you had gone to bed, and I was watching the stars through the pines. I won’t read it to you yet, for it wants working up, but it’s good—I am sure it is good! And that little stream along from the house; I found a song motif in that,—‘Clear babbling over amber bed!’ How’s that for a word-picture? Shows the whole thing, doesn’t it? The crystal clearness of the water; the music of its flow, the curious golden colour of the rocks. I’m always pleased when I can hit off a description in a line. I’m glad we came, Margot! There’s inspiration in this place.”
But for once Margot refused to be sympathetic.
“You did not come for inspiration, you came for a definite, practical purpose; and if you write a hundred poems, it won’t make up for neglecting it. Now, Ron, wake up! I shall be angry with you if you don’t do all you can for yourself. Promise me that you will try!”