“See that yellow flower down there,” she said, pointing toward the end of the path they had just come. “I want it, I must have it, please.” He did as he was bid, amiably enough.
She listened—she heard the voice of Oscar’s little sweetheart:
“It seems as if we were one already.”... It was high, resolute, unflagging, without emotion, a childish parroting of some novel. Oscar’s voice came back, half smothered:
“Do you really care—more than you like Berkeley?”
“Yes, I do,” she answered in the same false treble, “lots more.”
“Come here,” he said softly—the hay rustled.
“I don’t want to—the rye gets into my hair and spoils it.”
“Dolly, do you like the country?”
“Yes, I do,”—without conviction.
“We will go to the city,” he answered.