Victor had come from Bartol's study mightily resolved to do speedily and
well any work that might fall to his hand, but as he found himself
seated close beside the daylight girl and listening to her voice
transposing Morselli into English his resolution weakened. What were
ghosts, inventions, theories, compared to the satin-smooth curve of the
maiden's cheek or the delicate flutter of her lashes?
Try as he would, his attention wandered. The book smelled of the clinic,
the girl of the dawn. Morselli's problem was all of the night, while on
every side the young lover beheld trees flashing green mirrors to the
sun, and flowers riding like dainty boats on the billows of a soft
western wind. Moreover, the girl's voice was like to the purling of
brooks.
Twice she reproved him for his wandering wits and laggard pen, and the
second time he said: "I can't help it. The time and place invite to
other occupations. Let's go for a walk."
"A brave student, you are!" she mocked. "Mr. Bartol will find you a
valuable aid in his scientific investigations!"
Her look, her flushed cheek, and the hint of her bosom set him
a-tremble. The memory of his midnight visitor returned, filling him with
springtime madness.
"Don't you make game of me," he stammered, warningly. "If you
do--I'll--"