“Why?—No reason whatever, like most things. No, that’s not right. Hope! Oh—Blindfolded—hugging a silly harp with no strings. I wonder why she didn’t drop her harp framework over the edge of the globe, and take the handkerchief off her eyes, and have a look round! But of course she was a woman—and a man’s woman. Do you know I believe most women can sneak a look down their noses from underneath the handkerchief of hope they’ve tied over their eyes. They could take the whole muffler off—but they don’t do it, the dears.” “I don’t believe you know what you’re talking about, and I’m sure I don’t. Sapphires reminded me of your eyes—and—isn’t it ‘Blue that kept the faith?’ I remember something about it.” “Here,” said she, pulling off the ring, “you ought to wear it yourself, Faithful One, to keep me in constant mind.” “Keep it on, keep it on. It holds you faster than that fair damsel tied to a tree in Millais’ picture—I believe it’s Millais.” She sat shaking with laughter. “What a comparison! Who’ll be the brave knight to rescue me—discreetly—from behind?” “Ah,” he answered, “it doesn’t matter. You don’t want rescuing, do you?” “Not yet,” she replied, teasing him. They continued to talk half nonsense, making themselves eloquent by quick looks and gestures, and communion of warm closeness. The ironical tones went out of Lettie’s voice, and they made love. Marie drew me away into the dining room, to leave them alone. Marie is a charming little maid, whose appearance is neatness, whose face is confident little goodness. Her hair is dark, and lies low upon her neck in wavy coils. She does not affect the fashion in coiffure, and generally is a little behind the fashion in dress. Indeed she is a half-opened bud of a matron, conservative, full of proprieties, and of gentle indulgence. She now smiled at me with a warm delight in the romance upon which she had just shed her grace, but her demureness allowed nothing to be said. She glanced round the room, and out of the window, and observed: “I always love Woodside, it is restful—there is something about it—oh—assuring—really—it comforts one—I’ve been reading Maxim Gorky.” “You shouldn’t,” said I. “Dadda reads them—but I don’t like them—I shall read no more. I like Woodside—it makes you feel—really at home—it soothes one like the old wood does. It seems right—life is proper here—not ulcery——” “Just healthy living flesh,” said I. “No, I don’t mean that, because one feels—oh, as if the world were old and good, not old and bad.” “Young, and undisciplined, and mad,” said I. “No—but here, you, and Lettie, and Leslie, and me—it is so nice for us, and it seems so natural and good. Woodside is so old, and so sweet and serene—it does reassure one.” “Yes,” said I, “we just live, nothing abnormal, nothing cruel and extravagant—just natural—like doves in a dovecote.” “Oh!—doves!—they are so—so mushy.”