“Yes, if you call me. I’ll have to be here to guide your impressions in the right channels.”
“Canals, you mean,” said Patty, laughing at his serious face.
“Very well, canals. You are an apt pupil. Tell me, now, what is Venice like this morning?”
Patty looked around at the glowing scene. The autumn sunshine, the crisp, fine air, the beauty of form and colour everywhere. Then she said:
“Liquid sunlight, streaming down, as if strained through a golden sieve.”
“Rubbish!” cried Floyd, as, in another gondola, he drifted alongside. “Where’d you get that padded plush sentiment, Patty?”
“Isn’t it poetic?” she said, turning to Peter, with a look of mock anxiety.
“No,” he replied, “it’s forced and ridiculous, and you know it.”
“Yes, so I do,” said Patty, her face dimpling into smiles. “But you always make me feel as if I ought to feel that way about Venice.”