“Have you come to carriages?” she asked, laughingly. “You used to say if you couldn’t ride horseback, or walk, you would stand still.”
“And you agreed with me that carriages were only for the slow, the stupid, and the infirm,” he recalled. “It’s a glorious night. Would you rather walk, really?”
“Really.”
At the entrance to the grounds they parted from the others and went up one of the many avenues radiating from the square.
The air was full of snowflakes, moving so softly and so slowly they scarcely seemed to fall. The electric lights of the city shone cheerfully through the white mist, and the sound of distant mirthmakers fell pleasantly on the ear.
“Snow is the only picture part of winter,” said Carey. “Do you remember the story of the Snow Princess?”
“You must have a wonderful memory!” he exclaimed. “You were only six years old when I told you that story.” 202
“I have a very vivid memory,” she replied. “Sometimes it almost frightens me.”
“Do you know,” he said, “that I think people that have dreams and fancies do look backward farther than matter-of-fact people, who let things out of sight go out of mind?”
“You were full of dreams then, but I don’t believe you are now. Of course, politicians have no time or inclination for dreams.”