It was neither good nor bad. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. I have been very foolish, but it is over. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. The sun lingered, finally dropping beyond the dark canopy of pine trees at the edge of the park.
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