George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at
Summer Street. It was she who told me that you lived here."
"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when
he bent down to the grass without replying, it struck her that
she could mean something else. She watched his head, which was
almost resting against her knee, and she thought that the ears
were reddening. "No wonder the novel's bad," she added. "I never
liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one ought to read it as one's
met her."
"All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoyed at her
inattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "Every one
writes for money in these days."
"Oh, Cecil--!"
"It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."
Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups
and downs in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect
her. She had dwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves
refused to answer to the clang of his.
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