Knight had his note-book in his hand, and had, in fact, been in the very act of writing therein when they came in view of each other. He left off in the midst of a sentence, and proceeded to inquire warmly concerning her state of health. She said she was perfectly well, and indeed had never looked better. Her health was as inconsequent as her actions. Her lips were red, WITHOUT the polish that cherries have, and their redness margined with the white skin in a clearly defined line, which had nothing of jagged confusion in it. Altogether she stood as the last person in the world to be knocked over by a game of chess, because too ephemeral-looking to play one.
“Are you taking notes?” she inquired with an alacrity plainly arising less from interest in the subject than from a wish to divert his thoughts from herself.
“Yes; I was making an entry. And with your permission I will complete it.” Knight then stood still and wrote. Elfride remained beside him a moment, and afterwards walked on.
“I should like to see all the secrets that are in that book,” she gaily flung back to him over her shoulder.
“I don’t think you would find much to interest you.”
“I know I should.”
“Then of course I have no more to say.”
“But I would ask this question first. Is it a book of mere facts concerning journeys and expenditure, and so on, or a book of thoughts?”
“Well, to tell the truth, it is not exactly either. It consists for the most part of jottings for articles and essays, disjointed and disconnected, of no possible interest to anybody but myself.”
“It contains, I suppose, your developed thoughts in embryo?”