XI

           

           “Thisisthesouthterrace,”Annasaid.“Shouldyouliketowalkdowntotheriver?”

           Sheseemedtolistentoherselfspeakingfromafar-offairyheight,andyettobewhollygatheredintothecircleofconsciousnesswhichdrewitsglowingringaboutherselfandDarrow.Totheaeriallistenerherwordssoundedflatandcolourless,buttotheselfwithintheringeachonebeatwithaseparateheart.

           ItwasthedayafterDarrow’sarrival,andhehadcomedownearly,drawnbythesweetnessofthelightonthelawnsandgardensbelowhiswindow.Annahadheardtheechoofhissteponthestairs,hispauseinthestone-flaggedhall,hisvoiceasheaskedaservantwheretofindher.Shewasattheendofthehouse,inthebrown-panelledsitting-roomwhichshefrequentedatthatseasonbecauseitcaughtthesunlightfirstandkeptitlongest.Shestoodnearthewindow,inthepalebandofbrightness,arrangingsomesalmon-pinkgeraniumsinashallowporcelainbowl.Everysensationoftouchandsightwasthrice-aliveinher.Thegrey-greenfurofthegeraniumleavescaressedherfingersandthesunlightwaveringacrosstheirregularsurfaceoftheoldparquetfloormadeitseemasbrightandshiftingasthebrownbedofastream.

           Darrowstoodframedinthedoor-wayofthefarthestdrawing-room,alight-greyfigureagainsttheblackandwhiteflaggingofthehall;thenhebegantomovetowardherdowntheemptypale-panelledvista,crossingoneafteranotherthelongreflectionswhichaprojectingcabinetorscreencasthereandthereupontheshiningfloors.

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