Phyllis peered forward without intelligence. “What is it?” she asked.
Phyllis perceived that Phœbe was flushed with poetical excitement. And Phœbe’s voice dropped mystically to a deep whisper. “Don’t you see? White lilies! A coincidence, of course. But—Beautiful.”
“For a child with a high destiny, I doubt if Peter is careful enough with his clothes,” said Phyllis, trying to sound a less Pre-Raphaelite note. “He was a perfect little Disgrace this afternoon.”
“The darling! But I understand.... Joan too has much before her, Phyllis. As yet their minds are blank, tabula rasa; of either of them there is still to be made—anything. Peter—upon this Rock I set—a New Age. When women shall come to their own. Joan again. Joan of Arc. Coincidences no doubt. But leave me my fancies. Fancies—if you will. For me they are no fancies. Before the worlds, Phyllis, we were made for this.”
She rested her chin on her hand, and stared out into the blue twilight, a brooding prophetess.
“Only a woman can understand a woman,” she said presently. “Not a Word of this, Phyllis, to Others.”
“I wish we had bought some cigarettes this afternoon,” said Phyllis.
“The little red glow,” reflected Phœbe indulgently. “It helps. But I don’t want to smoke tonight. It would spoil it. Smoke! Let the Flame burn clear awhile.... We will get in cigarettes tomorrow.”
§ 7
Joan and Peter remained unaware of the great destinies before them. More observant persons than they were might have guessed there were deep meanings in the way in which Aunt Phœbe smoothed back their hair from their foreheads and said “Ah,” and bade them “Mark it well” whenever she imparted any general statement, but they took these things merely as her particular way of manifesting the irrational quality common to all grown-up people. Also she would say “Dignity! Your mission!” when they howled or fought. It was to the manuscript that grew into a bigger and bigger pile upon what had been Arthur’s writing-desk in Arthur’s workroom, that she restricted her most stirring ideas. She wrote there daily, going singing to it as healthy young men go singing to their bathrooms. She splashed her mind about and refreshed herself greatly. She wrote in a large hand, punctuating chiefly with dashes. She had conceived her book rather in the manner of the prophetic works of the admired Mr. Ruskin—with Carlylean lapses. It was to be called Hail Bambino and the Grain of Mustard Seed. It was all about the tremendousness of children.