She stroked the sleeve of his jacket affectionately. “Yes, that’s sure to happen. But what’s it all about?”
He commenced reciting, “‘She feedeth among the lilies. A garden enclosed is my sister: a spring shut up, a fountain sealed. Awake, O north wind, and come thou south. Blow upon my garden that the spices thereof may flow out.’ Catch the idea? It was mine; Teddy didn’t have a thing to do with it See what I’m driving at?”
He sat back from her to take in the effect. She drew him near again. “It sounds beautiful; but I don’t quite see all of it yet.”
He knotted his hands, trying to reduce his imagination to words. “It’s the women who aren’t like you, Dearie—the women who love themselves. They feed among lilies; the soul of love is in ’em, but they won’t let it out They’re gardens enclosed, fountains sealed, springs shut up. Now are you getting there? The symbolism of it caught me. There I have her, just as she is in her bang-up modern dress, feeding among the lilies of an Eastern garden. Everything’s heavy with fragrance, beautiful and lonely; the hot sun’s shining and nothing stirs. The windows of the harem are trellised and shut. From under clouds the north and south wind are staring and puffing their cheeks as though they’d burst. Through a locked gate in the garden you get a glimpse of an oriental street with the dust scurrying; but in my sister’s garden the air hangs listless. The fountain is dry; the well is boarded over. And here’s the last touch: halting in the street, peering in through the bars of the gate is the figure of Love. The woman doesn’t see him, though he’s whispering and beckoning. Love’s got to be stark naked; that’s how he always comes. Because he’s naked he looks the same in all ages. D’you get the contrast between Love and the girl’s modern dress? There’s where I’ll need you, Teddy.”
Teddy blushed. He spoke woefully. “But—but I’m not going to undress before her.”
For answer his father laughed.
“But can’t I have any clothes at all—not even my shirt?”
“Not even your shirt. She won’t see you, old man; in the picture she’s looking in the other direction. And as for the real live lady, we’ll paint you when she’s not on hand.”
“It’s roo-ude,” Teddy stammered. “Besides, it’s silly. Nobody eats lilies; they’re for Easter and funerals, and they’re too expensive. And—and can’t I wear just my trousers?”
His father frowned in mock displeasure. “For a boy of ideas and the son of an artist you’re surprisingly modest. Now if you were Jane I could understand it. Love would always put on trousers when he went to visit her. But you’re Dearie’s son. I’m disappointed in you, Teddy; you really ought to know more about love.”