Thus from caviar to soup, and from soup to roast, he contradicted Marie-Louise's conception of his state of mind. Fear and doubt, discouragement, a touch of despair, these carried him as far as the salad.
And then he heard Austin's voice speaking. "So you are really contented at Crossroads, Brooks?"
"Yes. I wish you would come down and let me show you some of the things I am doing. A bit primitive, perhaps, in the light of your larger experience. But none the less effective, and interesting."
Austin shrugged. "I can't imagine anything but martyrdom in such a life—for me. What do you do with yourself when you are not working—with no theaters—opera—restaurants—excitements?"
"We get along rather well without them—except for an occasional trip to town."
"But you need such things," dogmatically; "a man can't live out of the world and not—degenerate."
"He may live in it, and degenerate." Anne was speaking. Her cheeks were as pink as her gown. She leaned a little forward. "You don't know all that they have at Crossroads, and Dr. Brooks is too polite to tell you how poor New York seems to those of us who—know."
"Poor?" Richard had turned to her, his face illumined.
"Isn't it? Think of the things you have that New York doesn't know of. A singing river—this river doesn't sing, or if it does nobody would have time to listen. And Crossroads has a bell on its school that calls to the countryside. City children are not called by a bell—that's why they are all alike—they ride on trolleys and watch the clocks. My little pupils ran across the fields and down the road, and hurried when I rang for them, and came in—rosy."
She was rosy herself as she recounted it.