“Our plot in the cemetery—is it—pretty?”
“It is beautiful,” he said, “under the great trees. It is well cared for. I had them plant the shrubs and flowers you mentioned in the list you sent me.”
“Thank you.” She lifted her eyes again to him. “I wonder if you realise how—how splendid you have always been to me.”
Surprised, he reddened, and said awkwardly that he had done nothing. Where was the easy, gay and debonaire assurance of this fluent young man? He was finding nothing to say to Rue Carew, or saying what 318 he said as crudely and uncouthly as any haymaker in Gayfield.
He looked up, exasperated, and met her eyes squarely. And Rue Carew blushed.
They both looked elsewhere at once, but in the girl’s breast a new pulse beat; a new instinct stirred, blindly importuning her for recognition; a new confusion threatened the ordered serenity of her mind, vaguely menacing it with unaccustomed questions.
Then the instinct of self-command returned; she found composure with an effort.
“You haven’t asked me,” she said, “about my work. Would you like to know?”
He said he would; and she told him—chary of self-praise, yet eager that he should know that her masters had spoken well of her.
“And you know,” she said, “every week, now, I contribute a drawing to the illustrated paper I wrote to you about. I sent one off yesterday. But,” and she laughed shyly, “my nostrils are no longer filled with pride, because I am not contented with myself any more. I wish to do—oh, so much better work!”