"Isn't it perfect?" said Barbara, after a time. "I feel that this is the best that life has to offer, Dad. I wonder how much of that feeling is due to being rested and fed, after having been rather tired and rather hungry."
"I should think about half," he said.
"That only leaves half for the scenery, and the lovely air and the sunshine, and not being in Paris, and being with you, and looking forward to going home as the next thing. It isn't enough."
"And it leaves nothing at all for being young, and having nothing on your mind; nothing at all to worry yourself about. That's the great advantage of being young, which you never realise till you're no longer young. When something good comes along, like this, you can enjoy it to the full."
"You've got nothing to worry you now, have you, Dad?" she asked, after a pause.
"No, darling," he said, after another. "The way is pretty clear ahead now. Lots of jolly things to be done and some quite nice people to take an interest in. You and I will be able to do some of the nice things together, won't we?"
"It will be lovely," she said. "We're doing one of the nice things now. It was rather a good move, our coming here together, wasn't it, Dad?"
"Yes, a first-class move. Do you ever read Wordsworth, Barbara?"
"Not more than I'm obliged, darling. I've read about the tiresome child who couldn't count, and he nagged at her."
"I don't mean that sort of Wordsworth. Mother loved him. She read me things when we were on our honeymoon, going to beautiful places together."