"I could have told you," said I—"twenty-seven years ago."
"Perhaps you could tell me better now?" she said, innocently.
I looked out into the east where the gold dome of the Tomb rose glimmering through a pale-blue haze. "Under that dome lies an Emperor in his crypt of porphyry," said I. "Deeper than his dust, bedded in its stiff shroud of gold, lies my dead youth, sleeping forever in the heart of this fair young world of spring."
I touched my glass idly, then lifted it.
"Yet," said I, "the pale sunshine of winter lies not unkindly on snow and ice, sometimes. I drink to your youth and beauty, my child."
"Is that all?" she asked, wonder-eyed.
I thought a moment: "No, not all. Williams isn't the only autocratic interpreter of Fate, Chance, and Destiny."
"Williams!" she repeated, perplexed.
"You don't know him. He writes stories for a living. But he'll never write the story I might very easily tell you in the sunshine here."