The duet between these two confounded barrel-organs, one grinding
out rhetoric, the other chronology, went on all the morning, and often
I turned to Monica, sitting over her sewing, in hopes of a different
tune from her more melodious instrument, but in vain, for never a word
dropped from those silent lips. Occasionally her dark, luminous eyes
were raised for a moment, only to sink abashed again when they
encountered mine. After breakfast I went for a walk along the river,
where I spent several hours hunting for flowers and fossils, and amusing
myself as best I could. There were legions of duck, coot, rosy
spoonbills, and black-necked swans disporting themselves in the water,
and I was very thankful that I had no gun with me, and so was not
tempted to startle them with rude noises, and send any of them away
to languish wounded amongst the reeds. At length, after having indulged
in a good swim, I set out to walk back to the _estancia_.
When still about a mile from the house as I walked on, swinging my
stick and singing aloud in lightness of heart, I passed a clump of
willow-trees, and, looking up, saw Monica under them watching my
approach. She was standing perfectly motionless, and, when I caught
sight of her, cast her eyes demurely down, apparently to contemplate
her bare feet, which looked very white on the deep green turf. In one
hand she held a cluster of stalks of the large, crimson, autumnal
lilies which had just begun to blossom.
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