Will he go?
He understands. His chest collapses like a pair of bellows and he draws his two long legs together ostentatiously.
Why this tricky manœuvring? Why thoughts unspoken? I am a part of the tender landscape to him, and I realize he is looking at me tenderly. Why not dare to make a pure, natural confession?
"Good-bye?"
"Good-bye."
I can't be irritated with this man; I haven't the courage to; the weather is too lovely.
When you see the jolly morning frolicking on the road in cap-and-bells and look over where the blue curve of paradise lovingly touches the brown curve of the earth, all you feel is a warm indulgence.
It is too beautiful. The trees mingle their branches, the rays of sunshine mingle their warmth, the birds mingle their songs. Down below, the tide is coming in with the rush of clanking chains submerged by a host of swift, frisky little waves....
And this man with the knavish eyes is nothing more than a black particle blown by the wind to the end of this promontory where a few clustered pines taper into the azure.
It is too beautiful. All you can do is close your eyes.