She smiled.
"The poet," she murmured, "finds these things inspiring."
"The poet," I answered, "is an ordinary creature. Nowadays he eats mutton-chops, plays golf, and has a banking account. The real man of feeling, Isobel, is the man who knows how to be idle. Believe me, there is a certain vulgarity in seeking to make a stock-in-trade of these delicious moments."
"That is not fair," she protested. "How should we all live if none of you did any work?"
"For your age, Isobel," I declared seriously, "you are very nearly a practical person. You make me more than ever anxious for an answer to my last question. What were you thinking of just now?"
Her eyes seemed to drift away from mine. A touch of her new seriousness returned. She pointed to that thin blue line.
"Beyond there," she said, "is to-morrow, and all the to-morrows to come. One sees a very little way."
"Our limitations," I answered, "are life's lesson to us. If to-morrow is hidden, so much the more reason that we should live to-day."
"Without thought for the morrow?"
"Without care for it," I answered. "Are we not Bohemians, and is it not our text?"