that evening mr. brumley was quite unable to work. his mind was full of this beautiful dark lady who had come so unexpectedly into his world.
perhaps there are such things as premonitions. at any rate he had an altogether disproportionate sense of the significance of the afternoon's adventure,—which after all was a very small adventure indeed. a mere talk. his mind refused to leave her, her black furry slenderness, her dark trustful eyes, the sweet firmness of her perfect lips, her appealing simplicity that was yet somehow compatible with the completest self-possession. he went over the incident of the board again and again, scraping his memory for any lurking crumb of detail as a starving man might scrape an insufficient plate. her dignity, her gracious frank forgiveness; no queen alive in these days could have touched her.... but it wasn't a mere elaborate admiration. there was something about her, about the quality of their meeting.
most people know that sort of intimation. this person, it says, so fine, so brave, so distant still in so many splendid and impressive qualities, is yet in ways as yet undefined and unexplored, subtly and abundantly—for you. it was that made all her novelty and distinction and high quality and beauty so dominating among mr. brumley's thoughts. without that his interest might have been almost entirely—academic. but there was woven all through her the hints of an imaginable alliance, with us, with the things that are brumley, with all that makes beautiful little cottages and resents advertisements in lovely places, with us as against something over there lurking behind that board, something else, something out of which she came. he vaguely adumbrated what it was out of which she came. a closed narrow life—with horrid vast enviable quantities of money. a life, could one use the word vulgar?—so that carpaccio, della robbia, old furniture, a garden unostentatiously perfect, and the atmosphere of belles-lettres, seemed things of another more desirable world. (she had never been abroad.) a world, too, that would be so willing, so happy to enfold her, furs, funds, freshness—everything.
and all this was somehow animated by the stirring warmth in the june weather, for spring raised the sap in mr. brumley as well as in his trees, had been a restless time for him all his life. this spring particularly had sensitized him, and now a light had shone.
he was so unable to work that for twenty minutes he sat over a pleasant little essay on shakespear's garden that by means of a concordance and his natural aptitude he was writing for the book of the national shakespear theatre, without adding a single fancy to its elegant playfulness. then he decided he needed his afternoon's walk after all, and he took cap and stick and went out, and presently found himself surveying that yellow and blue board and seeing it from an entirely new point of view....
it seemed to him that he hadn't made the best use of his conversational opportunities, and for a time this troubled him....
toward the twilight he was walking along the path that runs through the heather along the edge of the rusty dark ironstone lake opposite the pine-woods. he spoke his thoughts aloud to the discreet bat that flitted about him. "i wonder," he said, "whether i shall ever set eyes on her again...."
in the small hours when he ought to have been fast asleep he decided she would certainly take the house, and that he would see her again quite a number of times. a long tangle of unavoidable detail for discussion might be improvised by an ingenious man. and the rest of that waking interval passed in such inventions, which became more and more vague and magnificent and familiar as mr. brumley lapsed into slumber again....
next day the garden essay was still neglected, and he wrote a pretty vague little song about an earthly mourner and a fresh presence that set him thinking of the story of persephone and how she passed in the springtime up from the shadows again, blessing as she passed....
he pulled himself together about midday, cycled over to gorshott for lunch at the clubhouse and a round with horace toomer in the afternoon, re-read the poem after tea, decided it was poor, tore it up and got himself down to his little fantasy about shakespear's garden for a good two hours before supper. it was a sketch of that fortunate poet (whose definitive immortality is now being assured by an influential committee) walking round his stratford garden with his daughter, quoting himself copiously with an accuracy and inappropriateness that reflected more credit upon his heart than upon his head, and saying in addition many distinctively brumley things. when mrs. rabbit, with a solicitude acquired from the late mrs. brumley, asked him how he had got on with his work—the sight of verse on his paper had made her anxious—he could answer quite truthfully, "like a house afire."
