"Come," said Ethan, nervously, "they'll wonder why we are hanging about."
"Most people are only half alive," she said, walking on; "they don't feel, they don't hear, they don't see, they don't even smell."
Ethan began to laugh almost hysterically.
"They can't turn such unexpected corners, anyhow," he said.
His laughter seemed a little to clear the atmosphere.
"You don't believe?" she inquired. "No, I suppose people wouldn't believe. But I've felt quite dizzy with joy at smelling hay after a rain. Heliotrope makes me want to laugh and sing. Violets make me feel meek and wistful; but they all do something to me. You, now, simply dislike the pungent smell of marigolds. I feel it stick into me like a kind of goad. But I oughtn't to tell anybody." She sighed.
"Why not?"
"Even you laughed."
"Forgive me, dear."
For the "dear" sake she smiled up at him, thrilling.