"I follow you, then," he answered; and Kathleen led the way to a partly sheltered nook, too inaccessible for most less-accustomed visitors, and so, remote from certain other figures which loomed penguin-like on points of rock.
"Father thinks he made the mistake of his life in not buying the island outright," said the girl; "then there wouldn't be any penguins."
"Supposing you had bought the Villa Chantecler? Where would I be?" asked Phil, as he settled down a little below the seat she had chosen, and tried to put the second cushion behind her back.
"Not at all," she said, turning to him. "Share and share alike." She laughed softly. "When I'm married, I'm going to have the tenderloin cut in two. Once in a while a husband wants his wife to have it all, but mostly I've noticed the wife expects the husband to have it all."
"That's like my mother," said Phil, resting his elbow on the discarded cushion. "I have the most wonderful mother."
"I know you have." Kathleen met the eyes lifted to her with a gaze as grave as their own and a sympathy that opened the flood-gates to all that was pressing in her companion's heart to-night.
"No one but myself knows how wonderful," said Phil, looking back at the water, something swelling in his throat. After a pause he went on. "We never had much money, and I couldn't pull away and do what I wished. That would be no return for my father's efforts and denials for me. Mother understood. Her whole life was a living example of self-denial and courage. She taught me to think clearly and showed me the value of noble-mindedness, virtue, and controlling love. It was her splendid patience and wisdom that gave me education and standing-room in the world."
Kathleen did not speak, but he felt her receptivity.
"It was very early when I began to think and dream and plan along entirely different lines from those my lot promised. My whole being from a child cried out for artistic expression; and what pathetic outbursts there were! I understand it now. Doesn't it seem natural for a child born in the month of May with a mother like a Madonna, sweet and gentle, to chase butterflies and pick flowers for their beauty and fragrance? And that child—I can't remember when he didn't long to create; but firmly, day by day, he was urged toward the practical. Create! Yes; but let it be machinery; money.
"The marble building with its sculpture against the blue of the sky, the painting that makes men wonder, the book that sets their hearts to throbbing—that was what I craved; and often lost my head in craving, my whole being vibrating with a great cry of joy in the thought of such creation. Can't you see it? The month of May—and the flowers—and God's universe—and the boy!"