“I am afraid the color will run,” he remarked.
“Will it?”
“I am not an authority.”
She looked at him with a certain critical candor, and said nothing. The man colored, though he considered himself a metaphysician.
She had a number of pins in a kerchief on the grass, and without more ado she began calmly to bind her hair. The man could see that it was damp and lustreless, not yet reburnished by the sun. The girl had been bathing in the Mallan. The idea inspired him. It was so mediæval—nay, classic.
“Do not let me waste your time.”
“I am not in a hurry,” he answered.
“You want to talk to me.”
“I?”
“You do not go.”