“Yes,” he said with his patient old smile, “your imperishable youthfulness, your eternal never-ending eternity-defying golden-tinted girlishness!”
A flute began to play in my heart. And I knew that like Ulysses’s men I would have to close my ears to it. But it’s easier to row past an island than to run away from your own heart.
“I know it’s a lie, Peter, but I love you for saying it. It makes me want to hug you, and it makes me want to pirouette, if I wasn’t on horseback. It makes my heart sing. But it’s only the singing of one lonely little chickadee in the middle of a terribly big pile of ruins. For that’s all my life can be now, just a hopeless smash-up. And you’re cut out for something better than a wrecking-car for the rest of your days.”
“No, no,” protested Peter. “It’s you who’ve got to save me.”
“Save you?” I echoed.
“You’ve got to give me something to live for, or 377 I’ll just rust away in the ditch and never get back to the rails again.”
“Peter!” I cried.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re not playing fair. You’re trying to make me pity you.”
“Well, don’t you?” demanded Peter.