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Page 8
But he saw Lota more - a
score of times -
And then she seemed to him the veriest witch
That ever glamoured men against their wills.
He could not read her. She seemed made to sit
Out of the wind and sing, to play with life,
And think in treble laughters; yet at times,
Rarely indeed, she'd sit in languid rest,
Drooping and limp, and answer with a voice
That seemed asleep and sad; and often too
Stole through her mirth a tremulous bitterness
That jarred unnatural in such an elf
Of freak and sportiveness; and most of all
When she was bitter she was tender too,
Yet hard when she was simply gay. She fled
From strangers' presence, yet, if she was forced
To front it, bore herself, first queenly, then
With a flash and glitter of quick wit and glow
Of almost joy that proved how far she was
From the sad love of solitary calm,
And how far from uncouth sly bashfulness
Of conscious silly schoolgirls. Then her face,
Which changed its meaning at a word, would change
Sometimes another way, and sudden show
On its round girlishness a worn waned look,
As of a woman growing older. So
She angered him with changes, as you're vexed
With the symphony that hurries you away
From the sweet strain you liked to one more wild
And then, ere you are sated with the new,
Takes you at unawares back to the first.
Changed music does not tire though it may chafe,
And Lota's fitfulness was never dull.
And Gervase quarrelled with her day by day,
Till Evelyn knew he loved her; though at first
Himself he hardly knew it. Evelyn watched
With a sick heart, and trembled: once she said
"Nay, Lota, tell him." Lots but said "Why?"
And then, when Evelyn spoke, "It seems to me
He loves you," kissed her fondlingly and laughed
"Dear love, if he loves either it is you."
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