"Yes, and she did so want to come, awfully keen on it," said Sir Basil;
"but I hope you won't think me very brutal if I confess that _I'm_ not
sorry. I want to talk to you, you see," Sir Basil beamed.
"I would rather talk to you, too," Imogen smiled. "My good old friend can
be very wearisome. But it was thoughtless of me to have brought her on this
way."
They rested for a little while on their rock, looking down into the
distance that was, indeed, worth any amount of climbing. And afterward,
when they reached the fairyland where the laurel drifted through the pine
woods, and as she quoted "Wood-Notes" to him and pointed out to him the
delicate splendors of the polished green, the clear, cold pink, on a
background of gray rock, Imogen could but feel her little naughtiness well
justified. It was delightful to be there in solitude with Sir Basil, and
the sense of sympathy that grew between her and this supplanter of her
father's was strange, but not unsweet. It wasn't only that she could help
him, and that that was always a claim to which one must respond, but she
liked helping him.
On the downward way, a little tired from the rapidity of her ascent, she
often gave her hand to Sir Basil as she leaped from rock to rock, and they
smiled at each other without speaking, already like the best of friends.
That evening, as she was going down to dinner, Imogen met her mother on the
stairs. They spoke little to each other during these days.
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