They were alone now.
Frida had smiled as she spoke, a smile of intelligence and reminiscence; and he was irresistibly reminded of the first and last occasion when he had discoursed to her about realities.
"And what are you going to do with it?" he asked.
"With what? With the reality or the dream?"
"With both, with life—now you've got it?"
"Why should I do anything with it? Unless you're talking of moral obligations, which would be very tiresome of you."
"I'm not thinking of moral obligations."
"What were you thinking of, then?"
"I was thinking—of you."
Frida lay back a little further on her cushion as if she were withdrawing herself somewhat from his scrutiny. She clasped her hands behind her head; her face was uptilted to the sky.