“Rather rude, isn’t it?” he asked. “But the desperation of loneliness is heavy on my soul.”
They sauntered to the gates and boarded a street car, which whirled them, with twenty other people equally though unconsciously lonely, toward the mountain. She did not speak until they were zig-zagging along a bridle path up the mountainside. Then she unfolded the verse and said musingly:
“A day of idyl! A year ago I thought that every day would be an idyl.” And the sweet mouth soured in the churn of memory.
“My dear lady,” he said, “memories have no place in a day of idyl. Oh, let me teach you how to live, live, live, if only for an hour! Let’s sing the song of nature which is happiness—dance the dance of winds which is joy—think the thought of butterflies which is nothing! Oh, there is happiness everywhere, everywhere—even for you and me!”
They reached a little hillock where a clump of bushes cast a tempting shadow.
“Let’s sit down a while,” she said, pouring water on a rocket.
For a few minutes they sat in silence. The idyl had not yet begun. From behind them came voices, and a woman’s laugh startled the air and the Poet. Nearer came the voices, and the Girl gripped the grasses at her sides. The couple swung jauntily past without noticing them and settled down in the long grass at the foot of the hillock.
The Poet and the Girl were statues. Their faces were averted. From the long grass came the noise of kisses.
The sun slipped away. The air was hot and heavy and all around was the silence of premonition. A bird piped fretfully, and a peevish breeze shook the leaves. The amorous couple in the long grass rose.
“Say,” said the man, looking at his watch, “if we’re goin’ to see that show we’ve got to hustle.”