“That is, not to be yourself,” she said pointedly.
He laughed without much heartiness.
“Don’t they seem a long way off?” he said, staring at the bucolic scene. “They are farther than Theocritus—down there is farther than Sicily, and more than twenty centuries from us. I wish it weren’t.”
“Why do you?” she cried, with curious impatience.
He laughed.
Crossing the down, scattered with dark bushes, they came directly opposite the path through the furze.
“There it is!” she cried, “How could we miss it?”
“Ascribe it to the fairies,” he replied, whistling the bird music out of Siegfried, then pieces of Tristan. They talked very little.
She was tired. When they arrived at a green, naked hollow near the cliff’s edge, she said:
“This shall be our house today.”