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Stanley coughed and faced toward the house. “I hope you realize,” he went on, in a lower and less assured tone, “that I am in earnest—very much in earnest. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. ’ Her lips parted, but she did not speak. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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