The day passed in assurances of affection. Suzanne told Eugene of a book she had read in French, "The Blue Bird." The allegory touched Eugene to the quick—its quest for happiness, and he named Suzanne then and there "The Blue Bird." She made him stop the car and go back to get her an exquisite lavender-hued blossom growing wild on a tall stalk which she saw in a field as they sped by. Eugene objected genially, because it was beyond a wire fence and set among thorns, but she said, "Yes, now, you must. You know you must obey me now. I am going to begin to train you now. You've been spoiled. You're a bad boy. Mama says that. I am going to reform you."
"A sweet time you'll have, Flower Face! I'm a bad lot. Have you noticed that?"
"A little."
"And you still like me?"
"I don't mind. I think I can change you by loving you."
Eugene went gladly. He plucked the magnificent bloom and handed it to her "as a sceptre," he said. "It looks like you, you know," he added. "It's regal."
Suzanne accepted the compliment without thought of its flattering import. She loved Eugene, and words had scarcely any meaning to her. She was as happy as a child and as wise in many things as a woman twice her years. She was as foolish as Eugene over the beauty of nature, dwelling in an ecstasy upon morning and evening skies, the feel of winds and the sigh of leaves. The beauties of nature at every turn caught her eye, and she spoke to him of things she felt in such a simple way that he was entranced.
Once when they had left the car and were walking about the grounds of an inn, she found that one of her silk stockings had worn through at the heel. She lifted up her foot and looked at it meditatively. "Now, if I had some ink I could fix that up so quickly," she said, laughing.
"What would you do?" he asked.
"I would black it," she replied, referring to her pink heel, "or you could paint it."