Never yet had she failed to do that; her arm might ache, she might be busy with other things, but she never failed to agitate the flag. That was clearly her business; it was her part of the bargain. But she wondered sometimes, and wondered now, how long she would have to go on doing this, for how many years more he would continue hoisting the flag for her to wave. In course of time she supposed he would cease to be her "swain," as his favourite Elizabethans phrased it, and she looked forward to the more prosaic years with more than equanimity. Just now, too, the whole impression made on her by Maud caused her to be both envious and impatient of romance. Maud was haloed with it; it shone from her. And Lucia, though she had never authentically felt it, recognized its authenticity in others. It was so common, too; it was a thousand pities she had missed it. The people who changed hats knew what it was, the couples who moored punts underneath the trees of Cliveden knew it; it was only she who had to contrive to appear to know it. Others had not to think; they just did as they felt inclined, changed hats or what not, and that was somehow the genuine thing. Even Edgar's invariable neatness did not blind her to the fact that he, too, was genuine. Though it was no beacon flaring from the windy mountain-top, like that which led Siegfried to Brunnhilde, that burned in him, it was the authentic fire, though burning, so to speak, in a neat grate with polished fireirons, and a small broom to sweep the hearth with.
Lucia, a little impatient, a little envious, failed to wave the flag for the first time.
"Oh, my dear," she said, "your compliments are charming, but are they quite, quite sincere? If you said I wrote for you a third verse of 'Her golden hair was hanging down her back," I could understand, but when you tell me that I have finished the 'Unfinished' for you, you strain me a little."
She saw his face fall, she saw a pained surprise come into his eyes, and instantly repented of her impatience. It was always a pity to disappoint people, unless to fulfil their expectations implied an exertion disproportionate to the pleasure you gave, and she instantly attempted to remedy her mistake. She sat down by him and took up his hand.
"It is so strange, so incredible to me, to think that I, this foolish flippant I, can be that to you," she said. "Sometimes I can't believe it, because it makes me out to be such a wonderful person. I am sure I disappoint you sometimes, and to finish
