She turned quickly to look at him. Something in his voice troubled her. "Gone—Why, Stefan, you're not thinking of going soon?"
"My book has made great progress here. It is a pleasant place for writing—I have nearly finished."
She gave an exclamation of something like anger. "You said you were going to stay 'as long as possible.' And after all it was only to finish another book!"
"Not quite 'only,' Joan."
"Then," she demanded impatiently, "why do you talk about going? I am still here, whether the book is done or not! Are you tired of me already?"
"What do you think?"
"Have you become such a gipsy that you can't stop anywhere more than a few months?"
"I wish," he said soberly, "that I might put my roots into this hillside like a tree, and never, never stir again, except to the winds, and the sap in my branches, and the seasons as they come and go—"
"And me beside thee singing in the wilderness?" she smiled, as he did not continue. "Say you'd need me here somewhere, even if you were a tree!"
"Every tree has one bird who lives in its branches. I should keep a nest safe for you, my dear—you and your Archie." He broke off. "But I am not a tree, merely a Wandering Jew to whom the time must come again to wander."