But--may I tell you?--I _must_ tell you--I never saw anything
so beautiful in my life as--yourself, to-day. I--" He broke off
abruptly. "Do you see that old rosebush there by those burnt ruins of a
house? Amber-white roses, and sweet as--I saw them there yesterday when
I went by. Let me get them for you."
He rode away into the deserted yard and up to a tangle of neglected
shrubbery. He had some difficulty in getting Thunderbolt--who was as
restless a beast as his name implied--to stand still long enough to
allow him to pick a bunch of the buds; he would have nothing but buds
just breaking into bloom. These he presently brought back to Roberta.
She fancied that he had planned to stop here for this very purpose.
Clearly he had the artist's eye for finishing touches. He watched her
fasten the roses upon the breast of the blue-cloth habit, then he turned
determinedly away.
"If I don't look at you again," said he, his eyes straight before him,
"it's because I can't do it--and keep my head. You accused me once of
losing it under a winter moon; this is a summer sun--more dangerous
yet.... Shall we talk about the crops? This is fine weather for growing
things, isn't it?"
"Wonderful.
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