“Perhaps. I don’t mind your saying those things as I once did.”
“All the fever,” she went on, “has gone out of life. Each day is a little book of hours. The opening and closing of each flower is an event of prime and beautiful importance. The shape and movement of clouds, the flight of birds, the shadows of the leaves on the grass—all those things and a thousand other lovely things are beginning to assume a right proportion in our lives. We are beginning to be happy.”
“It’s the wonderful peace of it all,” said Stephen.
“Yes. The peace of old age is something I have looked forward to all my life. That, and the dignity of it.” She looked up at him, smiling. “For old age, Stephen, my dear, is almost as dignified as death.”
THE END
[NOVELS OF SUPREME LITERARY ART]
THE GLIMPSES OF THE MOON
By EDITH WHARTON