"Ever so. Two of them sounded awfully like two songs I sing."
"It's a wise poem," he replied gravely, "that knows its own creator."
"I suppose they'll make you famous one day."
"I hope so."
"What a pity you didn't get any of the money!"
"Ah, my naïve young brother saw to that!"
"I should think you'd hate him for it."
"I don't hate anyone. I only wish people were as tolerant of me as I of them."
"I hate someone."
"Not me, I hope."
"You'd never guess."
"Tell me, then."
"Your wife."
"Do you really? My sister has done that."
"Not at all. I hate her on my own."
His gaze slid toward her swiftly, but he made no comment on this. They puffed in silence, each acutely aware of the other. He heard her suck in her breath once as though putting some sudden restraint on herself. Now the sun beat down on them hotly, inducing a mood of dreamy acquiescence.
After an interval, she said: "I've been to the shore on the last three mornings. It seemed lonely there without you."
He was astonished.
"Have you really? What a shame! And you didn't let me know!"
"I thought you'd expect me. I wouldn't disappoint you."
"My dear child!" He took her hand in his.
At his touch her eyes filled with tears, but she laughed through them. She said: "What a silly I am to care so much!"
