Constance.—"Oh, I'm not very tired. But I will keep your arm if you will let me."
Bartlett, making her sustain her weight more distinctly on his arm.—"By all means. Now, here, at this point, I think I'd better sketch you in that old oak down there at the foot of our hill, with its grape-vine, and you can work away at these without reference to Ponkwasset. The line of that clinging vine is one of the most graceful things that Nature—and Nature does know a thing or two, Miss Wyatt; she's particularly good at clinging vines—ever drew." He looks at her over his shoulder with an involuntary sigh. Then, "Suppose"—he takes up the charcoal—"I do it now. No, don't disturb yourself." They lean forward, and as he sketches, their faces, drawn together, almost touch. Bartlett drops the pencil, and starts away, releasing his arm: "Oh, no, no!"
Constance, simply.—"Can't you do it?"
Bartlett, in deep emotion.—"No, no; I can't do it—I mustn't—it would be outrageous—I—I"— Regaining his self-possession at sight of Constance's astonished face: "You said yourself just now that I had drawn everything in the picture. I can't do any more. You must do the clinging vine!"
Constance, innocently.—"Very well, I'll try. If you'll do the oak for me. I'll let you do that much more." They regard each other, she with her innocent smile, he with a wild rapture of hope, doubt, and fear. Then Bartlett draws a long, despairing sigh, and turns away.
Bartlett.—"To-morrow, to-morrow!" He walks away, and returns to her. "Have you read—have you ever read The Talking Oak, Miss Wyatt?"
Constance.—"Tennyson's? A thousand times. Isn't it charming?"
Bartlett.—"It's absurd, I think. Do you remember where he makes the oak say of the young lady,—
'And in a fit of frolic, mirth
She strove to span my waist:....
I wish'd myself the fair young beech
That here beside me stands,
That round me, clasping each in each,
She might have lock'd her hands'?"