"I believe I'd rather walk home."
"Why, it's five miles." He was somewhat disconcerted by her energy, for he was distinctly let down, in reaction from his day's work, and his afternoon's excitement of looking forward to an unusual meeting with her, which had turned out after all to be more than commonly placid.
"Five miles—and a heavenly night. The first of spring. Come, brace up."
"You must be feeling pretty strong."
"No," she said, "I am getting a bit headachy, I want some air, to get out of four walls and merge into the darkness—if you know what I mean."
"You're not going to be sick?" he asked concernedly.
"O, no—it's just a touch of spring fever, I imagine."
There is a cement path with a sloping concrete breakwater which winds between Lake Michigan on one side and Lincoln Park on the other for a distance of several miles. Here come the people in endless procession from morning until midnight, two by two, male and female, walking slow and talking low, permeated by the souls of children begging life.
It is a chamber of Maeterlinck's azure palace of the unborn.
Presently, by good luck, Georgia and her lover came upon a bench just as another couple was quitting it—the supply of benches being inadequate to the demands of pleasant evenings in spring. The departing two passed, one around each end of the seat, and walked rapidly, several feet apart, across the strip of lawn and bridal path beyond. They were delayed at the curb by the stream of automobiles and stood out in clear relief against the passing headlights.