And you?
The flourish of initials which she took to be St. J. A. H., wound up
the letter. She was very much flattered that Mr. Hirst should have
remembered her, and fulfilled his promise so quickly.
There was still an hour to luncheon, and with Gibbon in one hand, and
Balzac in the other she strolled out of the gate and down the little
path of beaten mud between the olive trees on the slope of the hill. It
was too hot for climbing hills, but along the valley there were trees
and a grass path running by the river bed. In this land where the
population was centred in the towns it was possible to lose sight of
civilisation in a very short time, passing only an occasional farmhouse,
where the women were handling red roots in the courtyard; or a little
boy lying on his elbows on the hillside surrounded by a flock of black
strong-smelling goats. Save for a thread of water at the bottom, the
river was merely a deep channel of dry yellow stones. On the bank grew
those trees which Helen had said it was worth the voyage out merely
to see. April had burst their buds, and they bore large blossoms among
their glossy green leaves with petals of a thick wax-like substance
coloured an exquisite cream or pink or deep crimson. But filled with one
of those unreasonable exultations which start generally from an unknown
cause, and sweep whole countries and skies into their embrace, she
walked without seeing.
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