We both blushed.
"Which way do you usually go home?" I asked, my ears afire.
[Illustration: "'Which way do you usually go home?' I asked."]
She told me. It was a suitably unfrequented path.
So presently I strolled thither; and seated myself under the trees in a
bosky dell.
Now, there is a quality in boskiness not inappropriate to romantic
thoughts. Boskiness, cigarettes, a soft afternoon in June, the hum of
bees, and the distant barking of the seals, all these were delicately
blending to inspire in me a bashful sentiment.
A specimen of _Papilio turnus_, di-morphic form, _Glaucus_, alighted near
me; I marked its flight with scientific indifference. Yet it is a rare
species in Bronx Park.
A mock-orange bush was in snowy bloom behind me; great bunches of
wistaria hung over the rock beside me.
The combination of these two exquisite perfumes seemed to make the
boskiness more bosky.
There was an unaccustomed and sportive lightness to my step when I rose
to meet Mildred, where she came loitering along the shadow-dappled path.
She seemed surprised to see me.
She thought it rather late to sit down, but she seated herself.
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