“Is it?”

She did not speak for some time.  She could not imagine a state of things in which she would not narrate the little daily miracles of her life to the good old garrulous women and the little open-mouthed romps.  And yet—­she lifted her eyes to his.

“I am glad you have told me that,” she said.  “Though indeed.  I do not see why one should not say what one does, yet—­somehow—­I do not like to talk about you.  It is like the pictures in the galleries, and the music in the cathedral, and the great still evenings, when the fields are all silent, and it is as if Christ walked abroad in them; I do not know how to talk of those things to the others—­only to you—­and I do not like to talk about you to them—­do you not know?”

“Yes, I know.  But what affinity have I. Bebee, to your thoughts of your God walking in His cornfields?”

Bebee’s eyes glanced down through the green aisle of the forests, with the musing seriousness in them that was like the child-angels of Botticelli’s dreams.

“I cannot tell you very well.  But when I am in the fields at evening and think of Christ.  I feel so happy, and of such good will to all the rest, and I seem to see heaven quite plain through the beautiful gray air where the stars are—­and so I feel when I am with you—­that is all.  Only—­”

“Only what?”

“Only in those evenings, when I was all alone, heaven seemed up there, where the stars are, and I longed for wings; but now, it is here, and I would only shut my wings if I had them, and not stir.”

He looked at her, and took, her hands and kissed them—­but reverently—­as a believer may kiss a shrine.  In that moment to Flamen she was sacred; in that moment he could no more have hurt her with passion than he could have hurt her with a blow.

It was an emotion with him, and did not endure.  But whilst it lasted, it was true.

CHAPTER XVII.

Then he took her to dine at one of the wooden cafes under the trees.  There was a little sheet of water in front of it and a gay garden around.  There was a balcony and a wooden stairway; there were long trellised arbors, and little white tables, and great rosebushes like her own at home.  They had an arbor all to themselves; a cool sweet-smelling bower of green, with a glimpse of scarlet from the flowers of some twisting beans.

They had a meal, the like of which she had never seen; such a huge melon in the centre of it, and curious wines, and coffee or cream in silver pots, or what looked like silver to her—­“just like the altar-vases in the church,” she said to herself.

“If only the Varnhart children were here!” she cried; but he did not echo the wish.

It was just sunset.  There was a golden glow on the little bit of water.  On the other side of the garden some one was playing a guitar.  Under a lime-tree some girls were swinging, crying, Higher! higher! at each toss.