“The last twenty years,” continued the other, “from my present view-point, are valuable mainly for contrast.”
“As a consistent regimen of pâté de foie gras,” said Shirley quizzically, “makes one value bread and butter?”
He shook his head at her. “As starvation makes one appreciate plenty. The next twenty years are to be here. But they hold side-trips, too. Now and then there’s a jaunt back to the city.”
“Contrast again?” she asked interestedly.
“Yes and no. Yes, because no one who has never known that blazing clanging life can really understand the peace and blessedness of a place like this. No, because there are some things which are to be found only there. There are the galleries and the opera. I need a breath of them both.”
“You’re right,” nodded the major. “Birds are birds, and Melba is Melba. But a sward like this in the early morning, with the dew on the grass, is the best opera for a steady diet.”
“I called them only side-trips,” said John Valiant.
“And semi-occasional longer flights, too,” the major reflected. “A look-see abroad once in a blue moon. Why not?”
“Yes. For mental photographs—impressions one can’t get from between book-covers. There’s an old cloister garden I know in Italy and a particular river-bank in Japan in the cherry-blossom season, and a tiny island with a Greek castle on it in the Ægean. Little colored memories for me to bring away to dream over. But always I come back here to Damory Court. For this is—home!”
They walked beneath the pergola to the lake, where Shirley gave a cry of delight at sight of its feathered population. “Where did you get them from?” she asked.