XII
He turned his face upward to the parasol of the great pine, closed his eyes and in a short time forgot his hard argument. January though it was, the mild stillness seemed to vibrate with faint midsummer sounds. Rowland sat vaguely attentive; he wished that for their common comfort the paste of Roderick's composition had had a certain softer ductility. It was like something that had dried to colour, to brilliancy; but had n't it also dried to brittleness? Suddenly, to his musing sense, the soft atmospheric hum was overscored with distincter sounds. He heard voices beyond a mass of shrubbery at the turn of a neighbouring path. In a moment one of them began to seem familiar, and an instant later a large white poodle emerged into view, slowly followed by his mistress. Miss Light paused on seeing Rowland and his companion; but though the former perceived he was recognised she gave him no greeting. Presently she walked directly toward him; and then, as he rose and was on the point of rousing Roderick, she laid her finger on her lips and motioned him to forbear. She stood looking at the deep peace of Roderick's sleep.
"What delicious oblivion!" she said. "Happy man! Stenterello"—and she pointed to his face—"wake him up!"
The poodle extended a long pink tongue and began to lick Roderick's cheek.
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