They came upon the stream again—or perhaps a different little brook, splashing and curling amid its ferns and green, drenched mosses. Stepping stones crossed it; Karen passed lightly, surely, on little flying feet, and stood laughing on the other side as he paused to poke about in the pool in hopes of starting a trout into arrowy flight.
When he crossed she had seated herself under a fir, the branches of which swept the ground around her; and so utterly had she vanished that she was obliged to call him before he could discover her whereabouts.
"Under this green tent," she said, "if I had a bed, and some books, and clothes, and food, and my maid and—a piano, I could live most happily all summer." She laughed, looked at him—"if I had all these and—you," she added.
"Why drag me into such a perfect paradise?"
"I shouldn't drag you," she said gravely. "I should merely tell you where I lived."
"I didn't mean it that way."
"You might have, with reason. I have demanded a great deal of your time."
"I have demanded all of yours!" he retorted, lightly.
"Not more than I was content to give.... It seems all a dream to me—which began when you rang the bell at Hyacinth Villa and roused me from my sleep. And," she added with a gay flash of malice, "you have kept me awake ever since."
"And you, me!"