“Except Grizel–of whom it was true.” I looked at her keenly, and she cast down her eyes.
“A farmer shouldn’t talk in literary allusions,” she said softly.
“Well,” I laughed, “they’ve got me past the golf links!”
We reached Twin Fires, and walked out to see if the roses were all alive, though they hadn’t had time to die. Then I went into the house to work, and she gathered a few sprays of lilac, and while I was settling down at my desk she arranged them in water and stood them on the mantels, humming to herself. Then she turned to go.
“Don’t go,” I cried.
She looked at me with a little smile, as if of query.
“It’s been such a nice day,” I added, “and it’s so pleasant to feel you here in the house. Please strum something while I work.”
“For ten minutes,” she replied, sitting down at the piano. “Then I must work, too–horrid letters.”
She rose presently, while I was scarce aware of it, and slipped out. I worked on, in silence save for the talk of the painters putting aside their brushes after the day’s work. But I could smell the lilacs she had left, and the scent of them seemed like the wraith of her presence in the sunny room.