Now be still, and I’ll tell you what sort of music you make.”
“Oh — well — tell me.”
“Like the calling of throstles and blackies, in the evening, frightening the pale little wood-anemones, till they run panting and swaying right up to our wall. Like the ringing of bluebells when the bees are at them; like Hippomenes, out-of-breath, laughing because he’d won.”
He kissed her with rapturous admiration.
“Marriage music, sir,” she added.
“What golden apples did I throw?” he asked lightly. “What!” she exclaimed, half mocking.
“This Atalanta,” he replied, looking lovingly upon her, “this Atalanta — I believe she just lagged at last on purpose.”
“You have it,” she cried, laughing, submitting to his caresses. “It was you — the apples of your firm heels — the apples of your eyes — the apples Eve bit — that won me — hein!”
“That was it — you are clever, you are rare. And I’ve won, won the ripe apples of your cheeks, and your breasts, and your very fists — they can’t stop me — and — and — all your roundness and warmness and softness — I’ve won you, Lettie.”
She nodded wickedly, saying:
“All those — those — yes.”
“All — she admits it — everything!”
“Oh! — but let me breathe. Did you claim everything?”
“Yes, and you gave it me.”
“Not yet. Everything though?”
“Every atom.”
“But — now you look —”
“Did I look aside?”
“With the inward eye. Suppose now we were two angels —”
“Oh, dear — a sloppy angel!”
“Well — don’t interrupt now — suppose I were one — like the ‘Blessed Damosel’.”
“With a warm bosom —!”
“Don’t be foolish, now — I a ‘Blessed Damosel’ and you kicking the brown beech leaves below thinking —”
“What are you driving at?”
“Would you be thinking — thoughts like prayers?”
“What on earth do you ask that for? Oh — I think I’d be cursing — eh?”
“No — saying fragrant prayers — that your thin soul might mount up —”
“Hang thin souls, Lettie! I’m not one of your souly sort. I can’t stand Pre-Raphaelities. You — You’re not a Burne-Jonesess — you’re an Albert Moore. I think there’s more in the warm touch of a soft body than in a prayer. I’ll pray with kisses.”
“And when you can’t?”
“I’ll wait till prayer-time again. By. Jove, I’d rather feel my arms full of you; I’d rather touch that red mouth — you grudger! — than sing hymns with you in any heaven.”
“I’m afraid you’ll never sing hymns with me in heaven.”
“Well — I have you here — yes, I have you now.”
“Our life is but a fading dawn?”
“Liar! — Well, you called me! Besides, I don’t care; ‘Carpe diem’, my rosebud, my fawn. There’s a nice Carmen about a fawn. ‘Time to leave its mother, and venture into a warm embrace.’ Poor old Horace — I’ve forgotten him.”
“Then poor old Horace.”
“Ha! Ha! — Well, I shan’t forget you. What’s that queer look in your eyes?”
“What is it?”
“Nay — you tell me. You are such a tease, there’s no getting to the bottom of you.”
“You can fathom the depth of a kiss —”
“I will — I will —”
After a while he asked:
“When shall we be properly engaged, Lettie?”
“Oh, wait till Christmas — till I am twenty-one.”
“Nearly three months! Why on earth —”
“It will make no difference. I shall be able to choose thee of my own free choice then.”
“But three months!”
“I shall consider thee engaged — it doesn’t matter about other people.”
“I thought we should be married in three months.”
“Ah — married in haste — But what will your mother say?”
“Say! Oh, she’ll say it’s the first wise thing I’ve done. You’ll make a fine wife, Lettie, able to entertain, and all that.”
“You will flutter brilliantly.”
“We will.”
“No — you’ll be the moth — I’ll paint your wings — gaudy feather-dust. Then when you lose your coloured dust, when you fly too near the light, or when you play dodge with a butterfly-net — away goes my part — you can’t fly — I— alas, poor me! What becomes of the feather-dust when the moth brushes his wings against a butterfly-net?”
“What are you making so many words about? You don’t know now, do you?”
“No — that I don’t.”
“Then just be comfortable. Let me look at myself in your eyes.”
“Narcissus, Narcissus! — Do you see yourself well? Does the image flatter you? — Or is it a troubled stream, distorting your fair lineaments?”
“I can’t see anything — only feel you looking — you are laughing at me. — What have you behind there — what joke?”
“I— I’m thinking you’re just like Narcissus — a sweet, beautiful youth.”
“Be serious — do.”
“It would be dangerous. You’d die of it, and I— I should —”
“What!”
“Be just like I am now — serious.”
He looked proudly, thinking she referred
