“And would that be happiness, Kate?”
“Would it not?”
“Then why not have the same dreams now?”
“Because I cannot—because they won’t come—because life is too full—because, as we eat before we are hungry, and lie down before we are tired, one’s thoughts never go high enough to soar above the pleasures that are around them. At least, I suppose that’s the reason; but I don’t care whether it is or not; there’s the carriage—I hear it coming. And now for such a jolly day in that glorious old garden, with the fountains and the statues, and
All the fine things in rock-work and crockery,
That make of poor Katun a solemn old mockery.
Do you know the rest?”
“No, I don’t. I never heard it.”
“It goes on, a something about
Flowers, the first gardener ne’er had in his Eden,
And dells so secluded, they ne’er saw the sun,
And sweet summer-houses so pleasant to read in,
With bright little jets-d’eau of eau-de-Cologne.
Isn’t that a Snob’s Paradise?—that’s what it’s called, Ada.” And away she went, singing a “Tyrol, tra la, la lira!” with a voice that seemed to ring with joy.