sun shone down on her through the pink blossoms; her eyes were as blue as the sea or sky, and expressed a wistful happiness.
"What are you thinking about?" asked Basil, looking up sleepily, and imprisoning her hand with the tormenting grass.
"Nothing very wise."
"'Que m'importe que tu sols sage?
Sois belle, et sois triste!'"
"Yes, but you don't like me when I'm triste."
"I like you any way, my child, any way—if only you'll talk to me, and tell me why and wherefore"
"One can't talk all the time. It always makes me sad to be happy, for then you dread change, and everything changes."
"Dearest, would you like to go on as we are, then?"
"Yes, forever. I don't want anything more, nor anything less."
"You want whatever you have. You didn't want me till you got me! Life has to be forced on you—then you like it well enough!"
"But no more of it—I don't want any more. I'm afraid of you, you're so omnivorous! You're always wanting something new, always being interested in new people. Some day you'll be tired of me."
He laughed. "It's much more apt to be the
