There is a strain of morbidness in the most healthy of us and Burton was no exception. That, perhaps, is why, after vainly striving to find interest in the Washington morning paper, he lighted the inevitable cigarette and went out into the yard.
It might well have been a morning of a year ago; everything was unchanged. The Daphne-tree threw its grotesque shadows on the turf; the iris bloomed along the old wall; the birds sang and called from the boughs; and beyond the iron fence the roses were courtesying and swaying—flares of pink and yellow, white and red—on their slender stalks; the Enchanted Garden was as beautiful as ever. Burton, his hands behind his back, a little stream of smoke curling up from under his moustache, stood in the shade of the tree in the corner and viewed the scene with unresponsive eyes. It was all over, he told himself for the fiftieth time—over and done with, dead and buried. In an hour or two he would put the memory of it out of his heart; until then, though, what harm in——
There came the sound of an opening door from beyond the rose-garden. At the top of the steps stood a girl in a muslin gown and a broad-brimmed hat. The gown was caught at her waist with a sash of light blue ribbon. With one gloved hand she held a basket, with the other her skirts. For a moment she stood there in the half-shadow of the rose-vines looking thoughtfully over the sea of color that broke at her feet. Over the garden her gaze wandered to the farther end, to the neighboring house, to a window open to the morning sunlight; and suddenly a flush of color ran riot over her cheeks, then faded. She stepped down to the path between the box hedges, and Burton, watching from beyond the fence, lost sight of her.
He contemplated retreat; he even reached a point half way to the side door; then he stole back, like a thief, to the shade of the Daphne-tree and waited there, his heart galloping and plodding by turns; waited for just one more sight of her, for a word before he went away. He could hear the snipping of her scissors and, as often before, could catch a glimpse now and then of her hat above the bushes. He waited and tried to think of things to say, things which would tell nothing of his heart-sickness. And, ere he had prepared his speech of greeting, she turned the corner of the path and [stood gazing full upon him].
She was surprised; oh, yes, she must have been surprised, for the color came and went in her cheeks and her lips parted breathlessly as she bowed to him. Burton removed his hat and took a step towards the fence. But he said nothing; nor did she; and the next instant they were gazing at each other again in silence over the topmost leaves. Burton made a desperate effort; he advanced to the fence and with a picket in each hand for support uttered a remark masterly in its originality, utter simplicity, and veracity,—
“A lovely morning?”