There was a silence; then she asked, a little wistfully:
“Who are you?”
He leaned forward, smiling, frankly charmed by her.
“I’ve told you. I am a bird of passage and I skim over the cities, on my way to places where no cities are. In passing, I stopped but an instant to sup with you. Only an instant, for summer is fleeing, and I must away with her.”
“And whither are you and summer going?”
“With summer I turn my back on the crowded marts of men. In the heart of a forest is a hut, built over a stream that laughs and sings to me through storm and sun. And there I live till the snows drive me to the place of humans again. There I write and dream—and dream and write—with none to say me nay. Some day I shall buy that hut—so that others may share my knowledge that it is mine.”
“And never have anything more than that?” thoughtfully.
“What more does a man need? See how your world—with its gowns and houses you married for—has deluded you. You have never found out that it is not things which make one’s life rich and radiant.”
She heard the tone of sympathy for which, it seemed to her, she had waited a very long lifetime, and her answer came with a little outburst of feeling.
“I have found it out. My life is one long boredom. In that respect it is not so different from the other lives I see lived around me.”