“Matey, dear, in all our twenty years of love, I never knew you till this day. Why did you not teach me about you before this?”
They were now slowly swimming through the placid waters of the lake toward the beach of white sand whence they had adventurously departed two hours before. The sun warmed their heads and the cool waters of the lake caressed their glowing bodies.
They stepped upon the sandy beach again.
They devoured their lunch with eagerness.
They now, while eating, having dried in the sun, by force of habit put on their conventional incumbrances of sex-differentiating toggery, took up their staffs and turned their backs upon the lake with its silvery waves and white sandy beach and slowly wended their way hand in hand through the forest, to the road leading to the inn.
As they walked along the mountain road slipping on stones and gravel each saw in the other’s eyes a new flame of love never lighted there before.
“I wonder, Matey, what it was that made this day’s adventure the grand adventure of my life? I never saw you look so fine before. I never felt closer to you than I do this minute. Why have you never before told me a story like that, that fired my imagination as yours seemed to be?”
“I suppose I never felt fired just that way myself. Ideas occurred to me I’d never had before. Besides, I’ve done a pile of thinking lately—and reading, too. I think I’ve succeeded in piecing out a pretty good fairy tale about us. It makes me much more interested in your view of the world than ever I was before. But I can tell you other stories now. I think I’ve learned how to fire your imagination.”
“You have, indeed! I’m eager for the next. When will it be?”