“My people are Southerners,” I answered, scarcely thinking of my words.
“How interesting. Did you live in the South?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! Shall you return some day?”
I shrank from her open look. I answered, “No,” quietly.
Her black-tressed head dipped forward on her chest and her lips grew mute as if my quick denial had silenced them. After a long while she said:
“What grand horizons you have in the West. I grow happier with each sunset that I see. Look at that fleet of pinkish cloudlets—those cloud-chariots of fire racing in those pearly streets.”
“The South cannot compare with the West,” I said. “Could any one describe this valley? Only a poet could do it. The summers here!—crisp, cool nights for sleep, clear bracing days for work—”
“And what for relaxation?”
“What do you think?”