“About your flight. And how you found the god of Wisdom seated all alone on the peak of Parnassus dissecting a human heart?”
“So you remember.”
“Yes; and I remember that little play you wrote in school—the story of the wish, the wings, and the new hat.”
She laughed, but there was the slightest shadow over the grey eyes. The shadow which renunciation casts, perhaps.
“I took a longer flight than to Olympus,” she said, “and it was you I discovered above the clouds;—all by yourself, Barry,—on a funny little world, spinning up there——”
“Was I busy dissecting somebody’s heart?”
“Mine—I guess.”
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, sweetheart; you never shall regret marrying me. Never shall I by look or word or deed interfere with your career. If I do, chuck me!”
She smiled—that tender, intelligent smile which lately was one of her charming revelations that vaguely surprised him. For the gods were granting her a little time yet—a little respite for a career the limit of which already was visible to her.
He had told her, diffidently, that he was not obliged to live economically; that what he had was hers, also; that there always was sufficient to finance any arrangement she wished to make for her own productions.