“What do you see, Mr. Lanman?” I had stolen from the raspberry patch cross the lawn and nearly to the steps.

He started and turned to look at me below him. I must admit, I had startled myself with my question. But once tossed, it could not be retrieved—there it floated aloft between us.

“Ehmm.” He colored slightly, then stepped down one of the broad stairs of the piazza as if to go join the group he had been watching.

“Forgive me,” I said, “I did not mean to embarrass you.”

But now his face flooded with color. “I’m not embarrassed in the slightest, Miss Thomas,” and he bowed toward me. I stepped upon the lowest of the stairs. He smiled.

“I was just considering the beauty of this scene.”

“The beauty?”

“Yes, how fine these old grasses are and how vibrant the man and then the children surrounding him—how the sea around them also serves to remind us of our own short lives, the sea eternal and man ephemeral”—he chuckled ruefully—“or something like that.”

“You have quite a terrible idea of beauty, Mr. Lanman,” I declared.

He crossed his arms, playful but attentive. “And what is so terrible in that?”

I climbed two more of the steps between us. “You indicate that what is beautiful must remind us of our insignificance.”

He did not smile. “I believe it must.”

“Then she is a very schoolmarm.” I smiled, but I, too, was serious. “Yet I do not think beauty need teach us anything.”

“What, then, is its function?” And now his tone condescended, just slightly, to me.

I shook my head and pursed my lips, then drew a large circle into the air with my finger.

“Nought,” I whispered. “Beauty—”

“Beauty is never for nought, I hope,” he interrupted, and then, indeed, he smiled at me, raising an eyebrow. “You should know that better than most, Miss Thomas.”

I felt a tiny shiver of pleasure at what was clearly meant to be a compliment, and I returned his smile. Indeed, what did it matter that I did not quite agree? I turned to look again at what he saw. But now the scene had entirely altered, and its comfortable distance was soon to vanish, for Bart Hunnowell was walking back up the lawn directly toward us, my white bowl in his hands.

“Miss Thomas, I believe this is yours?” Bart advanced to the bottom of the steps and stopped there, holding out the bowl. I looked quickly back over my shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Hunnowell, you know that it is.”

Following my glance, Bart smiled and drew an inch closer, addressing Mr. Lanman above me.

“Excuse me, Jonathan. I do not mean to interrupt, but you see Miss Thomas and I have some small business matter to attend here.”

“We were just speaking of beauty, Mr. Hunnowell”—I took one step down to him, the quicker to end this little encounter—“never business.”