He listened eagerly, with receptive ears, lying on his back and looking up and joying in each movement of her lips as she talked.

But his brain was not receptive.

There was nothing alluring in the pictures she drew, and he was aware of a dull pain of disappointment and of a sharper ache of love for her.

In all she said there was no mention of his writing, and the manuscripts he had brought to read lay neglected on the ground.
At last, in a pause, he glanced at the sun, measured its height above the horizon, and suggested his manuscripts by picking them up.
"I had forgotten," she said quickly.

"And I am so anxious to hear." He read to her a story, one that he flattered himself was among his very best.