"It looks as if it had rained," I said in amazement.
"Probably has," said Bill lazily, "Often does afternoons."
What a country!
That night, I made my first little song. There was a thought somewhere, back in my brain, a thought of moonlight and bars and a far-off singing. But it was not clear yet. So, instead, I set to paper the first eight lines that Cuba had made for me.
Fantasie
The palms are listening to Pan
Across the Terrace of the Night, A Peacock-Moon, aloof and white, Spreads wide a silver fan.
The gilded stars with laughter pass,
For I have caught an eerie sound, The Peacock droops ... just now, I found A silver feather in the grass!
And so the days passed in blur of color and scent: of sun and sleep.
Peter grew tanned, and so did I. It was life in a fairy tale, and would have seemed quite perfect—if—. But I had grown to believe that nothing was ever perfect. Perhaps it were wise so, else we should all be loath even more to leave life. And the rift in the lute could not wholly ruin the music.
We had been there a week, I imagine, before Mercedes Howell descended upon us. She came apparelled marvellously, in a highly horse-powered chariot, and brought with her, as was eminently proper, her parents.