applies."
"You wouldn't," said I. "Never mind. The train will leave when Geoffrey and Barley arrive."
"Perhaps he's coming tomorrow, instead of tonight."
"So much the better," said I, and pulled at the grass.
"And what of my name?" I sat up sharply.
With her head on one side, my lady was gravely regarding a beautiful palm.
"What's another twelve hours?" said I. "Your name stands or falls by last night."
Helena raised her eyebrows.
"You're getting quite reasonable."
"Don't you believe it,' said I.
"But—"
"I know. I take back what I said. As long as we're here alone, we're risking your name."
"Then you do hope he'll come?"
said Helena.
"For your sake— yes," I said shortly, and turned again to the path.
There was a little silence, broken at last by some woodpecker's careless mirth.
Max was playing quietly, loading his table with viands for the monkey to eat. Helena's dainty handkerchief made a fine cloth. Sabre was watching him gravely, monkey in mouth.
"You are not yourself," said Helena. "You've not been yourself the whole of this afternoon."
"I know," said I. "I've been standing on the platform ever since lunch."
"You do talk in riddles," she said, and pushed back her hair.
"I'm sorry. I'm all to bits. I've rather enjoyed this time."
"Sleeping in the kitchen?"
"Yes," said I. "And fetching fuel and water and watching you make the bread. All that we've done together I've loved it all. You see, I've never had a sister, and being with you like this has— has gone to my head."
"You've behaved very well," said Helena. "If Valentine was like you ... But I can't see him rising at dawn to make water warm for my bath."
"I wish to God," I burst out, "I could do it every day! Can't you see it's my pleasure— my ineffable pride and pleasure to wait upon you? You're— better than any sister."
"How do you know?"
"Instinct!" said I, thickly. "That's how I know. And please don't argue the point, because I can't say any more. I've never been so happy as I have been alone here with you, and never in all my life shall I be so happy again. I told you it was my idyll. And I'm not myself because, when Geoffrey comes, my idyll will go. And I don't want to let it go. I know I'm a fool, but I'm human. Adam and Eve— when they were pushed out of Eden, I'll bet it broke them down. Well, this is my Paradise, and I— don't want to get out."
Helena knitted her brows.
"It was all I could do," she answered, "to get you in. Besides, I can't see—"
"You wouldn't," I cried. "How could you? You've made the best of the business, and because you belong to Nature, you've found it a pleasant game. And you've let me be your playmate— the highest, most shining honour that ever a man was done. But it's not been a game to me, Helena. It's been most real and vivid . . Have you ever seen those glasses that seem to be full of wine? It's really collared water, locked up in the glass. And children pretend to drink it. Well, you've had a glass like that; but my glass was different. It's been a very short drink, but the wine was there the sort of wine you dream of, but never find."
Again I turned to stare at the way to Witchcraft, curling into the greenwood and seeming the very original of all those pretty paths down which Golden Locks and Red Riding Hood and Goody Two Shoes came stepping so naively into the Kingdom of Hearts.
"I'll watch the path," said Helena. "You go on talking, John. We shan't be alone much longer, and when Mr Bohun comes, you'll stop saying these pretty things."
"I mean them," I said slowly.
"I know," said Helena quietly. "That's why I like them so well."
I turned and looked at her.
"I said 'Go on talking,' " said Helena. "I told you I'd watch the path."
With that, she peered through the bracken, sitting up and lifting her chin.
"I can't go on talking," I said. "I'd like to amuse you, but the— the fountain doesn't play after six."
Helena glanced at her wrist.
"It's only ten minutes to— Never mind.
"You wouldn't," said I. "Never mind. The train will leave when Geoffrey and Barley arrive."
"Perhaps he's coming tomorrow, instead of tonight."
"So much the better," said I, and pulled at the grass.
"And what of my name?" I sat up sharply.
With her head on one side, my lady was gravely regarding a beautiful palm.
"What's another twelve hours?" said I. "Your name stands or falls by last night."
Helena raised her eyebrows.
"You're getting quite reasonable."
"Don't you believe it,' said I.
"But—"
"I know. I take back what I said. As long as we're here alone, we're risking your name."
"Then you do hope he'll come?"
said Helena.
"For your sake— yes," I said shortly, and turned again to the path.
There was a little silence, broken at last by some woodpecker's careless mirth.
Max was playing quietly, loading his table with viands for the monkey to eat. Helena's dainty handkerchief made a fine cloth. Sabre was watching him gravely, monkey in mouth.
"You are not yourself," said Helena. "You've not been yourself the whole of this afternoon."
"I know," said I. "I've been standing on the platform ever since lunch."
"You do talk in riddles," she said, and pushed back her hair.
"I'm sorry. I'm all to bits. I've rather enjoyed this time."
"Sleeping in the kitchen?"
"Yes," said I. "And fetching fuel and water and watching you make the bread. All that we've done together I've loved it all. You see, I've never had a sister, and being with you like this has— has gone to my head."
"You've behaved very well," said Helena. "If Valentine was like you ... But I can't see him rising at dawn to make water warm for my bath."
"I wish to God," I burst out, "I could do it every day! Can't you see it's my pleasure— my ineffable pride and pleasure to wait upon you? You're— better than any sister."
"How do you know?"
"Instinct!" said I, thickly. "That's how I know. And please don't argue the point, because I can't say any more. I've never been so happy as I have been alone here with you, and never in all my life shall I be so happy again. I told you it was my idyll. And I'm not myself because, when Geoffrey comes, my idyll will go. And I don't want to let it go. I know I'm a fool, but I'm human. Adam and Eve— when they were pushed out of Eden, I'll bet it broke them down. Well, this is my Paradise, and I— don't want to get out."
Helena knitted her brows.
"It was all I could do," she answered, "to get you in. Besides, I can't see—"
"You wouldn't," I cried. "How could you? You've made the best of the business, and because you belong to Nature, you've found it a pleasant game. And you've let me be your playmate— the highest, most shining honour that ever a man was done. But it's not been a game to me, Helena. It's been most real and vivid . . Have you ever seen those glasses that seem to be full of wine? It's really collared water, locked up in the glass. And children pretend to drink it. Well, you've had a glass like that; but my glass was different. It's been a very short drink, but the wine was there the sort of wine you dream of, but never find."
Again I turned to stare at the way to Witchcraft, curling into the greenwood and seeming the very original of all those pretty paths down which Golden Locks and Red Riding Hood and Goody Two Shoes came stepping so naively into the Kingdom of Hearts.
"I'll watch the path," said Helena. "You go on talking, John. We shan't be alone much longer, and when Mr Bohun comes, you'll stop saying these pretty things."
"I mean them," I said slowly.
"I know," said Helena quietly. "That's why I like them so well."
I turned and looked at her.
"I said 'Go on talking,' " said Helena. "I told you I'd watch the path."
With that, she peered through the bracken, sitting up and lifting her chin.
"I can't go on talking," I said. "I'd like to amuse you, but the— the fountain doesn't play after six."
Helena glanced at her wrist.
"It's only ten minutes to— Never mind.
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