"'Clouds and ships on sky, and sea,'" she murmured to herself.... "'And God always at the helm.' Why do men worry? All sail into the same port at last."
He bent over her: "What are you murmuring all to yourself down there?" he asked, smilingly.
"Nothing much,—I'm just watching the driftsam and flotsam borne on the currents flowing through my mind—flowing through it and out again—away, somewhere—back to the source of thought, perhaps."
He was still bending above her, and she looked up dreamily into his eyes.
"Do you think I shall ever have my garden?" she asked.
"All things good must come to you, Athalie."
She laughed, looking up into his eyes: "You meant that, didn't you? 'All things good'—yes—and other things, too.... They come to all I suppose.... Tell me, do you think my profession disreputable?"
"You have made it otherwise, haven't you?"
"I don't know. I'm eternally tempted. My
intelligence bothers me. And where to draw the line between what I really see and what I divine by deduction—or by intuition—I scarcely know sometimes.... I try to be honest.... When you came in just now, were they calling an extra?"