Some oddly familiar quizzical note in his voice stirred, as she turned to him, a lapsed memory. The hawklike yet benevolent and illuminating look he gave her recalled the man at Silliston whom she had thought a carpenter though he was dressed now in a warm suit of gray wool, and wore a white, low collar.
"In Silliston!" she exclaimed. "Why—what are you doing here?"
"Well—this instant I was just looking at those notepapers, wondering which I should choose if I really had good taste. But it's very puzzling—isn't it?—when one comes from the country. Now that saffron with the rough edges is very—artistic. Don't you think so?"
She looked at him and smiled, though his face was serious.
"You don't really like it, yourself," she informed him.
"Now you're reflecting on my taste," he declared.
"Oh no—it's because I saw the fence you were making. Is it finished yet?"
"I put the last pineapple in place the day before Christmas. Do you remember the pineapples?"
She nodded. "And the house? and the garden?"
"Oh, those will never be finished. I shouldn't have anything more to do."