The acknowledgment was so unexpected that it disconcerted Mrs. De Mille, and she had nothing to say.
“I suppose that bores you, too?” he said, half ironically.
“This is where I live,” was her only response. They had reached the entrance to a smart uptown apartment house, and Jane paused. Her tone was not exactly a dismissal one, and, as she faced him, Ormsby stared at her anxiously.
“Is there—can there be any hope for me——” he began.
“While there’s life there’s hope, you know,” retorted Jane, frivolously. “But I was just about to suggest that if you’re quite certain you don’t want to go back to Mrs. Hardenburgh’s, I’ll give you a cup of tea.”
Her tone was noncommittal, but as she led the way to the elevator, she looked back at him over her shoulder and laughed softly, and a great joy transfigured John Ormsby’s face.
TO A ROADSIDE CEDAR
’TIS not for thee in ancient walks to throw
Thy pointed shadows o’er the sculptured stone,
Where marble fixes some immortal moan
Of art; nor, gathering gloom where waters flow
Past groves Lethean, crypts of human woe,
To lift thy cheering spires. Thy lot is strown
In newer, happier climes and lands unknown
To classic realms of storied pomps and show.