Burton gazed ruefully after her until the door had hidden her from his sight. Then he went back to his chair under the Daphne-tree, clasped his hands behind his head, tilted back and sighed ecstatically.
Five minutes passed; ten; twenty. A lark high up in the magnolia-tree sang his shrill and florid melody to unheeding ears. The sun crept higher and higher until the shadow of the Daphne-tree reached the edge of the grass-plot. The bees rose and fell above the blossoms on invisible wings and humming-birds darted and poised along the tangle of honey-flowers.
Suddenly Burton’s chair came down with a thud and he sat erect, a frown on his brow.
“Were there,” he murmured, “or were there not dimples?”
“I think I must be repentant,” he said the next morning. “I’ve been feeling strangely happy of late—in fact, ever since I saw you coming out of the house.”
“Your repentance is not of very long standing,” she scoffed.
“Don’t discourage me, please! Five minutes of time may be of little consequence, but five minutes of happiness is so uncommon as to be priceless.”