It was a pleasure to look at his extraordinarily pretty little Andromeda, and he was quite willing to spend the rest of his visit with her. They went out on the verandah, where, in the awning's shade, lay two very nice fox terriers. A dachshund sat gazing out upon the sunlit lawn in a dog's dignified reverie.

"Jack and Vic," Hilda said, pointing out the two fox terriers. "They just belong to the whole family, you know. And this dear old fellow is Palamon; Arcite is somewhere about; they are mine."

"Who named yours?"

"I did--after I read it; they had other names when they were given to me, but as I had never called them by them, I thought I had a right to change them. I wanted names with a.s.sociations, like Katherine's setters; they are called Darwin and Spencer, because Katherine is very fond of science."

"Oh, is she?" said Odd, rather stupefied. "You seem to have a great many dogs in couples."

"The others are not; they are more general dogs, like Jack and Vic."

Hilda still held Odd's hand: she stooped to stroke Arcite's pensive head, giving the fox terriers a pat as they pa.s.sed them.

"So you are fond of Chaucer?" Odd said. They crossed the gravel path and stepped on the lawn.

"Yes, indeed, he is my favorite poet. I have not read all, you know, but especially the Knight's Tale."

"That's your favorite?"

"Yes."

"And what is your favorite part of the Knight's Tale?"

"The part where Arcite dies."

"You like that?"

"Oh! so much; don't you?"

"Very much; as much, perhaps, as anything ever written. There never was a more perfect piece of pathos. Perhaps you remember it." He was rather curious to know how deep was this love for Chaucer.

"I learnt it by heart; I haven't a good memory, but I liked it so much."

"Perhaps you would say it to me."

Hilda looked up a little shyly.

"Oh, I can't!" she exclaimed timidly.

"_Can't_ you?" and Odd looked down at her a humorously pleading interrogation.

"I can't say things well; and it is too sad to say--one can just bear to read it."

"Just bear to say it--this once," Odd entreated.

They had reached the edge of the lawn, and stood on the gra.s.sy brink of the river. Hilda looked down into the clear running of the water.

"Isn't it pretty? I don't like deep water, where one can't see the bottom; here the gra.s.ses and the pebbles are as distinct as possible, and the minnows--don't you like to see them?"

"Yes, but Arcite. Don't make me tease you."

Hilda evidently determined not to play the coward a second time. The quiet pressure of Odd's hand was encouraging, and in a gentle, monotonous little voice that, with the soft breeze, the quickly running sunlit river, went into Odd's consciousness as a quaint, ineffaceable impression of sweetness and sadness, she recited:--

"Allas the wo! allas the peynes stronge, That I for you have suffered, and so longe!

Allas the deth! allas myn Emelye!

Allas departing of our companye!

Allas myn hertes quene! allas, my wyf!

Myn hertes lady, endere of my lyf!

What is this world? What asketh man to have?

Now with his love, now in his colde grave Allone, withouten any companye."

Odd's artistic sensibilities were very keen. He felt that painfully delicious constriction of the throat that the beautiful in art can give, especially the beautiful in tragic art. The far-away tale; the far-away tongue; the nearness of the pathos, poignant in its "white simplicity."

And how well the monotonous little voice suited its melancholy.

"Allone, withouten any companye,"

he repeated. He looked down at Hilda; he had tactfully avoided looking at her while she spoke, fearing to embarra.s.s her; her eyes were full of tears.

"Thanks, Hilda," he said. It struck him that this highly strung little girl had best not be allowed to dwell too long on Arcite and, after a sympathetic pause (Odd was a very sympathetic person), he added:

"Now are you going to take me into the garden?"

"Yes." Hilda turned from the river. "You know he had just gained her, that made it all the worse. If he had not loved her he would not have minded dying so much, and being alone. One can hardly bear it," Hilda repeated.

"It is intensely sad. I don't think you ought to have learned it by heart, Hilda. That's ungrateful of me, isn't it? But I am old enough to take an impersonal pleasure in sad things; I am afraid they make you sad."

Hilda's half-wondering smile was rea.s.suringly childlike.

"Oh, but it's _nice_ being sad like that."

Odd reflected, as they went into the garden, that she had put herself into his category.

After the shadow of the shrubberies through which they pa.s.sed, the fragrant sunlight was dazzling. Rows of sweet peas, their mauves and pinks and whites like exquisite musical motives, ran across the delicious old garden. A border of deep purple pansies struck a beautifully meditative chord. Flowers always affected Odd musically; he half closed his eyes to look at the sweeps of sun-flooded color. A medley of Schumann and Beethoven sang through his head as he glanced down, smiling at Hilda Archinard; her gently responsive little smile was funnily comprehensive; one might imagine that tunes were going through her head too.

"Isn't it jolly, Hilda?"

"Very jolly," she laughed, and, as they walked between the pansy borders she kept her gentle smile and her gentle stare up at his appreciative face.

She thought his smile so nice; his teeth, which crowded forward a little, lent it perhaps its peculiar sweetness; his eyelids, drooping at the outer corners, gave the curious look of humorous sadness to the expression of his brown eyes. His moustache was cut shortly on his upper lip, and showed the rather quizzical line of his mouth. Hilda, unconsciously, enumerated this catalogue of impressions.

"What fine strawberries," said Odd. "I like the fragrance almost more than the flavor."

"But won't you taste them?" Hilda dropped his hand to skip lightly into the strawberry bed. "They are ripe, lots of them," she announced, and she came running back, her outstretched hands full of the summer fruit, red, but for the tips, still untinted. The sunlit white frock, the long curves of black hair, the white face, slim black legs, and the spots of crimson color made a picture--a sunshiny Whistler.

Odd accepted the strawberries gratefully; they were very fine.

"I don't think you can have them better at Allersley Manor," said Hilda, smiling.