“‘Fame––fame––the plaudits of the people––a pedestal apart.’ 370
“‘Yes,’ whispered my soul to me, ‘and a great envy always surrounding; a great fight always to hold thy small pedestal secure.’
“Of such as this are ideals made? No. ’Twas a mistake. I have sought not an ideal, but an ambition––a worthless thing. An ideal is something beautiful––a great love. ’Tis not yet too late to correct my fault; to seek this ideal––this beautiful thing––this love.”
He reached over to the woman and their fingers, as by chance, touching, lingered together. His eyes shone, and when he spoke his voice trembled.
“You know the ideal––the beautiful thing––the love I seek.”
Side by side they sat, each bosom throbbing; not with the wild passion of youth, but with the deeper, more spiritual love of middle-life. Overhead, the night wind murmured; all about, the crickets sang.
Turning, she met him face to face, frankly, earnestly.
“Let us think.”
She rose, in her eyes the look men worship and, worshipping, find oblivion. 371
A moment they stood together.