"You would take my only comfort," he muttered. "Estelle—don't go."
Man does not see sometimes his supreme selfishness. That this girl should eat her life out to keep him from his sorrows.
"I ... let us go out," she said.
Outside spring rioted, danced, kissing men and maids to madness and to merriment. His breath passion, his light touch a thrill.
"Come from this sooty sarcophagus," Bertie said.
They drove to the Park, and on to Kensington Gardens, where London plays at being the countryside. There the big trees were really green; one could look through the tracery at the blue sky, and forget the great city roaring at right and left, at back and front. Toy lap-dogs, belled and netted, and larger dogs held on leash, by well-dressed men and women, bereft of liberty, told that this was a mere painted scene, and no true piece of country.
But it was fresh. Spring danced there gleefully. Summer would gather the harvest; spring was the sower of love thoughts.
Estelle strolled across the grass, sat down at length on a wooden bench, where a great beech above her made green fretwork against a sea of tender blue.
They were silent. Everyday words were out of tune to spring's music; and they feared to say the others.
"You cannot go, Estelle. You will not really." Bertie harked back to the fear of parting.