“And the sun is gone, and the clams are digged, and I must go.”
“Eve,” I observed, “you are a logician.”
“I am not,” she replied. “I am a woman.”
“Heaven be praised for that!” I cried. “A perfect work!”
“Adam,” she said, and she was half laughing as she spoke, “I ought to be angry with you.”
“You ought not,” I answered, “for it heats the blood and causes vapors in the brain. Or so the ancient writers tell us. Besides, I do not like it.”
“Like a woman’s postscript,” said she. “You are a strange fisherman.”
“Truly,” I said, “I am. But see the water and the sky, Eve. What peace and tranquillity! Can you feel anger when you look upon that? And what am I? The grass of the field, and to-morrow I shall be cast into the oven. For to-morrow it will be hot.”
“You speak much nonsense, Adam.”
“Nonsense is the savor of life, Eve.”