"In my library there," said I, pointing to the window.
"You ought to be there now. I am keeping you from your books," she exclaimed, with a certain grave archness.
"You would be keeping me from my books, whether you were absent or present."
"Should I? How?"
"By making me think of you."
"And do you really think of me, Mr. Thorburn?"
"You have never been out of my mind since the evening I dreamt of you."
"It was curious you should have dreamed of me," she said, putting her hands behind her and leaning against the back of a garden-seat.
"It was mysterious," I answered gravely.