'You say he was a very clever artist. Do you like his work better than mine?'
'It was as different as you yourselves are.'
'I wonder if I should like it?'
'He would have liked that,' and she pointed with her parasol towards an oak glade, golden hearted and hushed.
'A sort of Diaz, then?'
'No, not the least like that. No, it wasn't the Rousseau palette.'
'That's a regular Diaz motive. It would be difficult to treat it differently.'
The carriage rolled through a tender summer twilight, through a whispering forest.
XVII.
At the end of September the green was duskier, yellow had begun to appear; and the crisped leaf falling through the still air stirred the heart like a memory.