"I see you have been reading these," I remarked after we had given each
other a cold good-morning.
The pupils of her eyes contracted for a second, she was annoyed with
herself that she had left the paper cutter in the book.
"Yes."
"After lunch will you read to me?"
"Of course."
"You like poetry?"
"Yes, some."
"This kind?"
Her cheeks became softly pink.
"Yes, I do. I daresay I should have more classical tastes, but these
seem real, these poems, as if the author had meant and felt what she was
writing about. I am no judge of poetry in the abstract, I only like it
if it expresses some truth, and some thought--which appeals to me."
This was quite a long speech for her!
"Then poems about love appeal to you?" I asked surprised.
"Why not?"
"Why not indeed, only you always have seemed so austere and aloof, I
hardly thought such a subject would have interested you!"
She gave a little shrug of her shoulders.
"Perhaps even the working bees have dreams."
"Have you ever been in love?"
She laughed softly, the first time I have ever heard her laugh. It gave
me a thrill.
"I don't think so! I have never talked to any men. I mean men of our
class."
This relieved me.
"But you dream?"
"Not seriously."
Burton announced luncheon at that moment, and we went in.
We spoke of the rain, and she said she liked being out in the wet. She
had walked all down the _Avenue Henri Martin_ to the _Bois_. We spoke of
the war news, and the political situation, and at last we were alone
again in the salon.
"Now read, will you please."