“Tired—could you slip out and take me home?”
But, once in his big car he did not take her home, a matter of a dozen blocks. Instead he turned to the road which circled the boulevards.
“Hush,” he said, at her protest. “I told Dick that you were too tired to dance and that I was going to take you for a ride. It’s all fixed. I’ll be back there long before Fliss is ready to go. And I’ve not had a chance to talk to you for ages.”
But they did not talk much. They watched the city below them, spreading so big, a thousand lights coming from places of comedy and tragedy all intermingled. Once she roused herself out of her relaxation to tell him how peaceful she felt. He merely nodded.
High over the city he stopped on the very crest of the hills and shut off the motor. The place was black and silent and isolated. Stars hung close and the city looked small and remote.
“How infinitesimal it all is—all the fuss down there,” said Cecily.
“Of course you’d feel that,” said Matthew, lighting a cigarette. “That’s why I brought you up. It’ll do you good. You mustn’t let things as small as that eat you up, Cecily.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t let things bother you. Nothing matters an awful lot.”
“Life matters. So Mother Fénelon said once.”