As he sat listening, his eyes grew wide and his lips were parted, like a child who feels the tale but does not understand the words. She, looking away from herself at last, saw him, began to laugh gently, and patted his hand saying:
“Oh! my dear heart, are you bewildered? How amiable of you to listen to me—there isn’t any meaning in it all—there isn’t really!”
“But,” said he, “why do you say it?”
“Oh, the question!” she laughed. “Let us go back to our muttons, we’re gazing at each other like two dazed images.”
They turned on, chatting casually, till Greorge suddenly exclaimed, “There!”
It was Maurice Griffinhagen’s “Idyll.”
“What of it?” she asked, gradually flushing. She remembered her own enthusiasm over the picture.
“Wouldn’t it be fine?” he exclaimed, looking at her with glowing eyes, his teeth showing white in a smile that was not amusement.
“What?” she asked, dropping her head in confusion.
“That—a girl like that—half afraid—and passion!” He lit up curiously.
“She may well be half afraid, when the barbarian comes out in his glory, skins and all.”
“But don’t you like it?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Make love to the next girl you meet, and by the time the poppies redden the field, she’ll hang in your arms. She’ll have need to be more than half afraid, won’t she?”
