“See!” said the young man to the butterfly. “Fate decides for you.”
“But what will you do?” she asked solicitously.
“Perhaps I can find some other place in the Square.”
She held out her hand. “You’ve been very nice and helpful, but—I think not. Good-bye.”
He regarded the hand blankly. “Not—what?”
“Not here in this Square, if you don’t mind.”
“But where else is there?” he asked piteously. “You know yourself there are countless thousands of homeless drifters floating around on this teeming island in vans, with no place to land.”
“Try Jersey. Or Brooklyn,” was her hopeful suggestion.
“‘And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb’d, salt, estranging sea,’”
he quoted with dramatic intonation, adding helpfully: “Matthew Arnold. Or is it Arnold Bennett? Anyway, think how far away those places are,” he pleaded. “From you!” he concluded.