“No, this is only the poison of influenza, and I’m grateful for it. It brings me here.”
The doctor sat down and plucked a buttercup.
“I think I can understand your feeling. You have escaped from the poisoned air of cities into purer air. There is not a poisonous miasma in all this region, and there are few poisonous flowers. These stamens are male, but they suggest only the beauty of Persian gold, not the blunder by which the Creeks called a certain substance arsenic, the male element. From this hillside you may have the illusion of elysium, where the mind moves freely and finds all things harmless. When you get your breath, I should be glad to hear if you have hopes of elysium issuing from war.”
“I have hopes of chemistry, sir.”
“You are a chemist, captain?”
“Yes, but please drop the title. Please call me Marvin.”
“Well, Marvin, you shall dream of a chemical heaven as much as you please while you sojourn here. And you shall rob my garden without asking permission. Agricola, give your new friend some strawberries.”
Agricola moved the basket over and politely wheedled.
“Not for me, governor. Strawberries picked by the editor of Tacitus are too expensive for a Mahan.”
The old New Englander looked pleased, but he was dry about it.