"I always notice my own."
Eleanor's head drooped a little, to hide the rush of pleasure and shame.
"But, Rowland," she said with gentle persistence, "what would you like to have done with that basket? Isn't there some meaning behind your words about it?"
"What makes you think so?" said he, curling the corners of his mouth in an amused way.
"I thought so. Please tell it me! You have something to tell me."
"The fruit is yours, Eleanor."
"And what am I?"
The tears came into her eyes with a little vexed earnestness, for she fancied that Mr. Rhys would not speak because the fruit was hers. His manner changed again, to the deep tenderness which he had shewn so frequently; holding her close and looking down into her face; not answering at once; half enjoying, half soothing, the feeling he had raised.
"Eleanor," he said, "I do not want that fruit."
"Tell me what to do with it."