“I think,” said Lyndall, “that he is like a thorn-tree, which grows up very quietly, without any one’s caring for it, and one day suddenly breaks out into yellow blossoms.”
“And what do you think I am like?” asked Gregory, hopefully.
Lyndall looked up from her book.
“Like a little tin duck floating on a dish of water, that comes after a piece of bread stuck on a needle, and the more the needle pricks it the more it comes on.”
“Oh, you are making fun of me now, you really are!” said Gregory feeling wretched. “You are making fun, aren’t you, now?”
“Partly. It is always diverting to make comparisons.”
“Yes; but you don’t compare me to anything nice, and you do other people. What is Em like, now?”
“The accompaniment of a song. She fills up the gaps in other people’s lives, and is always number two; but I think she is like many accompaniments—a great deal better than the song she is to accompany.”
“She is not half so good as you are!” said Gregory, with a burst of uncontrollable ardour.
“She is so much better than I, that her little finger has more goodness in it than my whole body. I hope you may not live to find out the truth of that fact.”