He recovered slowly from the surprise of her unlooked for speech,
attitude. Howat studied her frankly, leaning forward with his elbows on
his knees. Her discontent was paramount. It was deeper than he had
supposed; like his there were disturbing qualities in her blood,
qualities at a variance with the obvious part of her being. A sense of
profound intimacy with her pervaded him.
"This," she continued, "is like a cure at a Bath, a great bath of air
and light. I should like to stay, I think.... Are you content?"
"It always seemed crowded to me," he admitted. "Usually I get as far
away as possible, into the woods, the real wilderness. But you heard my
father last night--I'm a black Penny, a solitary, dark lot. You couldn't
judge from what I might feel."
"Your father and you are not sympathetic," she judged acutely. "He is
practical, solid; but it isn't easy to say, even with an explanation,
what you are. In London--but I'm sick of London. Myrtle Forge. It's
appalling at night. I'd like to go into the real wilderness, leave off
my hoops and stays, and bathe in a stream; a water nymph and you ... but
that's only Watteau again, with a cicisbeo holding my shift and
stockings. In London you'd be that, a lady's servant of love; but, in
the Province, I wonder?"
He sat half comprehending her words mingling in his brain with the
pounding of the trip hammer at the Forge, one familiar and one
unfamiliar yet not strange sound.
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