“I’d like to think it was me,” said Joan idiomatically.
“It’s you....
“After all there must be some snatches of holiday. I shall walk with you through beautiful days—as we are doing today—days that would only be like empty silk purses if it wasn’t that they held you in them. Scenery and flowers and sunshine mean nothing to me—until you come in. I’m blind until you give me eyes. Joan, do you know how beautiful you are? When you smile? When you stop to think? Frowning a little. When you look—yes, just like that.”
“No!” said Joan, but very cheerfully.
“But you are—you are endlessly beautiful. Endlessly. Making love to Joan—it’s the intensest of joys. Every time—— As if one had just discovered her.”
“There’s a certain wild charm about Petah,” Joan admitted, “for a coarse taste.”
“After all, whether it’s set in poverty or plenty,” said Peter; “whether it’s rational or irrational, making love is still at the heart of us humans.”...
For a time they exulted shamelessly in themselves. They talked of the good times they had had together in the past. They revived memories of Bungo Peter and the Sagas that had slumbered in silence since the first dawn of adolescence. She recalled a score of wonderful stories and adventures that he had altogether forgotten. She had a far clearer and better memory for such things than he. “D’you remember lightning slick, Petah? And how the days went faster? D’you remember how he put lightning slick on his bicycle?”...
But Peter had forgotten that.
“And when we fought for that picshua you made of Adela,” Joan said. “When I bit you.... It was my first taste of you, Petah. You tasted dusty....”