“Can’t you understand that if one had happened to drop out of the world by chance, it might be desirable to stay out for a while?”
“For you? No; I can’t understand that.”
“What about yourself?” she challenged with a swift, amused gleam. “You are certainly staying out of the world here.”
“This is my world.”
Her eyes and voice dropped. “Truly?” she murmured. Then, as he made no reply, “It isn’t much of a world for a man.”
To this his response touched the heights of the unexpected. He stretched out his arm toward the near window through which could be seen the white splendor of Mount Carstairs, dim in the wreathing murk.
“Lo! For there, amidst the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes, Only winds and rivers, Life and death,” he quoted.
Her eyes glowed with sheer, incredulous astonishment. “How came you by that Stevenson?” she demanded. “Are you poet as well as recluse?”
“I met him once.”
“Tell me about it.”