“I’m a cow browsing amidst the peonies,” said Bolin seriously. “Without a thought, I feed on light and colour.”
“You don’t look like a cow,” said the woman, dubiously. “Maybe you’re spoofing me, you funny old turnip!”
“No, I only jest with the morning,” Bolin answered, unperturbed. “It ignores me with soaring colours and I prefer this to the minute antagonisms of human beings. You don’t understand a word I say—you bend beneath tepid apprehension, so I find a pleasure in speaking to you—it’s like humming a love-song to a mud-turtle.”
“Don’t get insultin’,” said the woman with disgruntled amazement. “I think you’re crazy.”
Bolin turned, with a smile like a distant spark, and walked away between the peonies. The woman regarded him a moment, while a fascinated frown battled with her painted face. Then she strode after him and gripped his arm.
“Hey, watcha leavin’ me for?” she said in a piteously strident voice.
“For the peonies in this garden,” answered Bolin, mildly.
“Listen, don’t get mad at me,” she said. “I don’t care whether you’re crazy or not. I like your face.”
Bolin gazed at her while sorrow loosened his face and made it glisten spaciously.
“Can you become as spontaneously tranquil as these peonies?” he asked.