y 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