A moment it hung below her lightly poised, white wings uplifted, head down-bent, feet down-dropped towards the flood below. Then this too vanished in the mist.
And having seen that she went away content.
FROM THE BANK OF THE RIVER
IX
FROM THE BANK OF THE RIVER
I
In a room in an hotel of the south some one was lying ill. It was March, and an airless, parching heat lay outside, the palms drooped yellow leaves, the bee-eaters chattering on a carob-bush dived luxuriantly into corn so green that they were in no wise distinguished from it; they turned and fluttered like butterflies, and from the bronze wing feathers a sheen of gold rippled over their emerald in the sun.
Inside the room was as cool as it might be; when, from time to time, the shutters were opened the glory of gold and green outside flashed into sight. Outside life was heavy with heat, luxuriant, substantial; bounded, limited and weighed down by its very fullness.