Together they moved outside and the wind came up out of the sea across the sleeping field and swept their faces and set the young leaves of the orchard to whispering with sweet fresh lips to their gnarled stems.
Kathleen looked up at her companion, smiled and shook her head.
"You have added poetry to our island," she said. "I didn't think any one could do that."
Phil met her gaze.
"And you," he said, "have put the finishing touch to my satisfaction."
CHAPTER XXIII
PHILIP'S LETTER
Dearest Mother:—You remember I told you I had found a pig's ear and was going to make a silk purse out of it despite the scepticism of the neighborhood. Behold the purse! I call it the Villa Chantecler. It has taken me the whole week, but the result—well, Kathleen says I have added poetry to the island, and I suspect she is authority on poetry, although that too is hidden in one of the locked rooms I've told you about. She gives just enough of herself to each person to fit every occasion; but the way she took the first view of the Villa yesterday was like everything else she does; perfection. I didn't know I was going to write that. I didn't know I thought it. That's the beauty of having some one to whom you can think aloud. You find out what you do think; but she and I touch only on the high places and when we leave the island we shall fly apart for the whole winter again; with pleasant memories, however. She has a positive talent for letting people alone. I love such people!