"
Burton looked very sad.
"You need not have put it into my head," he objected gently. "The inn
smells so horribly of the beer that other people have drunk. Besides, I
have come such a long way--just for a glimpse of you."
It seemed to her like a false note. She frowned.
"That," she insisted, "is ridiculous."
"Is it?" he murmured. "Don't you ever, when you walk in your gardens,
with only that low wall between you and the road, wonder whether any of
those who pass by may not carry away a little vision with them? It is a
beautiful setting, you know."
"The people who pass by are few," she answered. "We are too far off the
beaten track. Only on Saturdays and holiday times there are trippers,
fearful creatures who pick the bracken, walk arm in arm, and sing songs.
Tell me why you look as though you were dreaming, my preserver?"
"Look along the lane," he said softly. "Can't you see them--the
wagonette with the tired horse drawn up just on the common there--a
tired, dejected-looking horse, with a piece of bracken tied on to his
head to keep the flies off? There were three men, two women and a
little boy. They drank beer and ate sandwiches behind that gorse bush
there. They called one another by their Christian names, they shouted
loud personal jokes, one of the women sang.
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