“—in comparison with the quality of love to be had in its high moments of general joyous awareness of the entire radiant life of a fellow being—meeting his perceptions and recorded in his imagination, clothed in color and motion and talk and laughter and fresh air, the head turning with frank gay light in the eyes, the lips parted in speech, while the springing step goes rhythmically over the wide-stretching earth under sunlight and blue heavens.”
“It will be a long time,” said Cornelia, “before Dorothy needs to trouble her head with that. Meanwhile, we shall occupy ourselves with the rudiments. Shall we see you at mail-time to-morrow?”
“Yes,” I said, “and we’ll take up Oliver’s case, perhaps. There’s going to be a fine sunset. ’Voir!”
VII
THE REAL THING
As I entered the wood path through the birches that run down to my own cottage, I thought I saw a boyish youngish figure slipping among the trees to the eastward. A moment later, I met Dorothy walking demurely up the path, with a book in her hand, closed upon one finger.
“Watching the sun set?” I asked, diplomatically.
“No,” she said, “watching him disappear.”
“Watching whom disappear?” I inquired, being invited.
“Oh, a boy that I like. We’ve been reading one of mother’s new books. It’s about a girl, Deirdre, who didn’t want to marry a king, because there was a boy that she liked very much better—in all ways. And so they ran away and lived in the woods—and died happily.”
“Oho!” I exclaimed. “I suspect the happiness of their death has been greatly exaggerated. It seemed to me rather dreadful. It’s James Stephens’s version, isn’t it?”