“Did you learn in that school to live life—here? Ah, I think not. And you may go any place, and to any thing. You were not old enough to be married or to live your own life—but you were old enough to attempt—this fearful thing. My friend, go back to your home. You are too young. It is written in your face.”
“But I have no home anywhere. All this wonder is yours; how fortunate above fortune you are!” Julie looked wistfully up at her from the ground.
The lady receded a little from the balcony, and the shadows dropped heavily on the twilight face. “Am I?”
Again she spoke. “What is your name? I want to see you again. One does not see every day a little Atlas who is going to lift the world on its back. You promise?”
“Indeed I do!”
Julie sped through the gold-tipped shadows. Mrs. Calixter was late in her dressing, and Julie was so concerned over the low-necked gown that she had been commanded to wear for the drive on the Luneta, and so concerned later over what she saw when she got there, that she forgot for the time to ask about the garden and its fair owner.
“The Luneta is an open-air reception in this one wonderful hour of the day, my dear. Did you have a nice nap?”
Julie smiled. Naps at nineteen, when every moment counts!
Mrs. Calixter regarded pensively this freshness of the dawn. “May it be the top of the morning to you always! Look at me.” She pointed to her bloodless face and sun-faded hair. “The East drinks you up after a while, body and soul. We’re dust that God needs to breathe on again. Don’t let it swallow you!”
“It’s marvelous though, like a dream,” Julie murmured. “I hope I’ll never wake up.”