“Then for that matter a man might go adventuring in his own house,” she suggested.
“Or along a country road.”
“Because,” she explained, “there are obstacles everywhere.”
“It would be a dull world without them. Your greatest adventurer after all is a child. De Soto never ran the gauntlet of half the thrilling hazards that confront an infant in his toddling course from the nursery to the garden-gate. And if the gate is a-swing and he is successful in reaching the saffron road, he has before him an open field that might well make Pizarro pause and gasp.”
“You almost tempt one to start upon a quest,” she laughed.
“You’ve probably already started,” he affirmed. “Everyone starts as soon as he finds his feet.”
“But the joy of it lies in the consciousness of it,” she suggested.
“Exactly.”
He was silent for a moment. Their eyes met at a focus point in the fiery clouds at the edge of the earth.
“Next to children, lovers are your true adventurers,” he declared.