Lotty seemed able to. She had gone off down the
hill directly after breakfast, alone yet obviously rejoicing, for she
had not suggested that Rose should go too, and she was singing as she
went.
Rose had spent the day by herself, sitting with her hands
clasping her knees, staring straight in front of her. What she was
staring at were the grey swords of the agaves, and, on their tall
stalks, the pale irises that grew in the remote place she had found,
while beyond them, between the grey leaves and the blue flowers, she
saw the sea. The place she had found was a hidden corner where the
sun-baked stones were padded with thyme, and nobody was likely to come.
It was out of sight and sound of the house; it was off any path; it was
near the end of the promontory. She sat so quiet that presently
lizards darted over her feet, and some tiny birds like finches,
frightened away at first, came back again and flitted among the bushes
round her just as if she hadn't been there. How beautiful it was. And
what was the good of it with no one there, no one who loved being with
one, who belonged to one, to whom one could say, "Look." And wouldn't
one say, "Look--dearest?" Yes, one would say dearest; and the sweet
word, just to say it to somebody who loved one, would make one happy.
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