‘You know,’ said Tarrant, after a long pause, and speaking as though he feared to break the hush, ‘that Keats once stayed at Teignmouth.’ Nancy did not know it, but said ‘Yes.’ The name of Keats was familiar to her, but of his life she knew hardly anything, of his poetry very little. Her education had been chiefly concerned with names. ‘Will you read me a paragraph of Helmholtz?’ continued the other, looking at her with a smile. ‘Any paragraph, the one before you.’ She hesitated, but read at length, in an unsteady voice, something about the Conservation of Force. It ended in a nervous laugh. ‘Now I’ll read something to you,’ said Tarrant. And he began to repeat, slowly, musically, lines of verse which his companion had never heard: ‘_O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither’d from the lake, And no birds sing_.’ He went through the poem; Nancy the while did not stir. It was as though he murmured melody for his own pleasure, rather than recited to a listener; but no word was inaudible. Nancy knew that his eyes rested upon her; she wished to smile, yet could not. And when he ceased, the silence held her motionless. ‘Isn’t it better?’ said Tarrant, drawing slightly nearer to her. ‘Of course it is.’ ‘I used to know thousands of verses by heart.’ ‘Did you ever write any?’ ‘Half-a-dozen epics or so, when I was about seventeen. Yet, I don’t come of a poetical family. My father--’ He stopped abruptly, looked into Nancy’s face with a smile, and said in a tone of playfulness: ‘Do you remember asking me whether I had anything to do with--’ Nancy, flushing over all her features, exclaimed, ‘Don’t! please don’t! I’m ashamed of myself!’ ‘I didn’t like it. But we know each other better now. You were quite right. That was how my grandfather made his money. My father, I believe, got through most of it, and gave no particular thought to me. His mother--the old lady whom you know--had plenty of her own--to be mine, she tells me, some day. Do you wish to be forgiven for hurting my pride?’ he added. ‘I don’t know what made me say such a thing--’ She faltered the words; she felt her will subdued. Tarrant reached a hand, and took one of hers, and kissed it; then allowed her to draw it away. ‘Now will you give me another blackberry?’ The girl was trembling; a light shone in her eyes. She offered the leaf with fruit in it; Tarrant, whilst choosing, touched the blue veins of her wrist with his lips. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked presently. ‘I mean, what do you aim at in life?’ ‘Enjoyment. Why should I trouble about anything else. I should be content if life were all like this: to look at a beautiful face, and listen to a voice that charms me, and touch a hand that makes me thrill with such pleasure as I never knew.’ ‘It’s waste of time.’