An unreasonable, bucolic jealousy, partly due to his
condition, overcame Collie's usual serenity. His invalidism magnified
the whole affair to absurd proportions.
Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze that caused Louise to glance
up. His expression startled her. His eyes were burning. His face was
unnaturally white. He met her glance, but gave no sign of recognition--a
rudeness that he regretted even while he manifested it.
Louise turned away proudly, calling Winthrop's attention to a huge
garden-seat beneath the live-oaks. "We have dinner out there quite
often," she said, her eyes glowing. "Would you care to rest a while
after your ride?"
"'A jug of wine--a loaf of bread--'" he quoted.
"But it isn't a wilderness. And dinner won't be ready for an hour yet.
Don't you think a wilderness would have been utterly stupid with his
'thou' beside him singing everlastingly? Now please don't say, 'It would
depend on the _thou_.'"
"Do you sing, Miss Lacharme?"
"A little."
"Please, then,--a little. Then I'll answer your question."
"I had rather not, just now."
"My answer would be the same in either case. This is living, after the
desert and its loneliness. I discovered one thing out there,
however,--myself.
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