"I never want to go back," Garda declared. She laughed as she said it. But she looked at Lucian with the same serene content; it was very infectious, he sank down on his camp-stool, and began again.
Margaret stood a moment as if uncertain. Then she sat down beside Garda, and went on with her wreath.
"How perfectly still it is here!" said Lucian. "Florida's a very still land, there are no hot sounds any more than cold ones; what's your idea of the hottest sound you know, Mrs. Harold?"
Margaret considered. "The sound—coming in through your closed green blinds on a warm summer afternoon when you want to sleep—of a stone-mason chipping away on a large block of stone somewhere, out in the hot sun."
"Good! Do you know the peculiar odor made by summer rain on those same green blinds you speak of? Dusty ones?"
"They needn't be dusty. Yes, I know it well."
"I'm afraid you're an observer; I hope you don't turn the talent towards nature?"
"Why not?"
"Because people who observe nature don't observe their fellow-man; the more devoted you are to rocks and trees, and zoophytes and moths, the less you care for human beings; bless you! didn't you know that? You get to thinking of them in general, lumping them as 'humanity.' But you always think of the zoophytes in minutest particulars."
"Never mind sketching the tomb; sketch me," said Garda.