"Ah, ah! Never is a long word, Lennan.I am going to have some tea;" and gingerly he walked away, quizzing, as it were, with a smile, his own stiffness.
Lennan remained where he was, with burning cheeks.His tutor's words again had seemed directed against her.How could a man say such things about women! If they were true, he did not want to know; if they were not true, it was wicked to say them.It must be awful never to have generous feelings; always to have to be satirical.Dreadful to be like the 'English Grundys'; only different, of course, because, after all, old Stormer was much more interesting and intelligent--ever so much more; only, just as 'superior.' "Some never get away!" Had she meant--from that superiority? Just down below were a family of peasants scything and gathering in the grass.One could imagine her doing that, and looking beautiful, with a coloured handkerchief over her head; one could imagine her doing anything simple--one could not imagine old Stormer doing anything but what he did do.And suddenly the boy felt miserable, oppressed by these dim glimmerings of lives misplaced.And he resolved that he would not be like Stormer when he was old! No, he would rather be a regular beast than be like that!...
When he went to his room to change for dinner he saw in a glass of water a large clove carnation.Who had put it there? Who could have put it there--but she? It had the same scent as the mountain pinks she had dropped over him, but deeper, richer--a scent moving, dark, and sweet.He put his lips to it before he pinned it into his coat.
There was dancing again that night--more couples this time, and a violin beside the piano; and she had on a black frock.He had never seen her in black.Her face and neck were powdered over their sunburn.The first sight of that powder gave him a faint shock.He had not somehow thought that ladies ever put on powder.
But if SHE did--then it must be right! And his eyes never left her.He saw the young German violinist hovering round her, even dancing with her twice; watched her dancing with others, but all without jealousy, without troubling; all in a sort of dream.What was it? Had he been bewitched into that queer state, bewitched by the gift of that flower in his coat? What was it, when he danced with her, that kept him happy in her silence and his own? There was no expectation in him of anything that she would say, or do--no expectation, no desire.Even when he wandered out with her on to the terrace, even when they went down the bank and sat on a bench above the fields where the peasants had been scything, he had still no feeling but that quiet, dreamy adoration.The night was black and dreamy too, for the moon was still well down behind the mountains.The little band was playing the next waltz; but he sat, not moving, not thinking, as if all power of action and thought had been stolen out of him.And the scent of the flower in his coat rose, for there was no wind.Suddenly his heart stopped beating.
She had leaned against him, he felt her shoulder press his arm, her hair touch his cheek.He closed his eyes then, and turned his face to her.He felt her lips press his mouth with a swift, burning kiss.He sighed, stretched out his arms.There was nothing there but air.The rustle of her dress against the grass was all! The flower--it, too, was gone.
