"Writing about two hours?" he repeated. "But why write about hours at all, dear lady. An hour is an arbitrary division of time, interesting only to the unhappy."
"Very witty," she said. "Go and scratch it on the sundial."
And she resumed her letter, trying not to be aware of the blond young man seated just outside the summer house, where the sun gilded his hair and the wind mussed it into a most becoming mop.
Several times she bit the pearl tip of her penholder, frowning; but he always seemed to catch her eye at such moments, and her deepening frown only produced on his face an expression which was so very humble that it became almost mischievous.
"Jack!"
He hurriedly rose, and looked all around him among the roses as though eagerly searching for the person who had called him.
"Jack!" she repeated emphatically.
He pretended to discover her for the first time, and hurried joyously to the lattice door.
"Jack—you perfect idiot! I want to write, and I simply can't, with you sitting around in that martyred manner."
"How far away shall I retire?" he inquired, so sad and crestfallen, that between amusement and annoyance she did not reply, but merely sat tapping with her pen and inspecting her letter.