“Oh, read something aloud!” cried another of the young ladies.
“Isn't Browning rather serious for a picnic?” he asked, with a glance at Alice; he still had a doubt of the effect of the rheumatic uncle's dance upon her, and would have been glad to give her some other aesthetic impression of him.
“Oh no!” said Mrs. Brinkley, “nothing is more appropriate to a picnic than conundrums; they always have them. Choose a good tough one.”
“I don't know anything tougher than the 'Legend of Pernik'—or lovelier,” he said, and he began to read, simply, and with a passionate pleasure in the subtle study, feeling its control over his hearers.
The gentlemen lay smoking about at their ease; at the end a deep sigh went up from the ladies, cut short by the question which they immediately fell into.
They could not agree, but they said, one after another: “But you read beautifully, Mr. Mavering!” “Beautifully!” “Yes, indeed!”
“Well, I'm glad there is one point clear,” he said, putting the book away, and “I'm afraid you'll think I'm rather sentimental,” he added, in a low voice to Alice, “carrying poetry around with me.”
“Oh no!” she replied intensely; “I thank you.”
“I thank you,” he retorted, and their eyes met in a deep look.
One of the outer circle of smokers came up with his watch in his hand, and addressed the company, “Do you know what time it's got to be? It's four o'clock.”