“That was a wonderfully quaint and beautiful thing,” said he. “What was it?”
She turned to him, and he saw that the mocking had gone from her eyes and mouth, leaving them quite simple, like a child's.
“Did you like it?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Orde. He hesitated and stammered awkwardly. “It was so still and soothing, it made me think of the river sometimes about dusk. What was it?”
“It wasn't anything. I was improvising.”
“You made it up yourself?”
“It was myself, I suppose. I love to build myself a garden, and wander on until I lose myself in it. I'm glad there was a river in the garden—a nice, still, twilight river.”
She flashed up at him, her head sidewise.
“There isn't always.” She struck a crashing discord on the piano.
Every one looked up at the sudden noise of it.