“So in your opinion every genius must be a poor fool?”
“According to some standards, yes. He was made to walk on the heights, and when he is forced to descend to the valley and mingle with the rest of us his head often remains in the clouds, and he stumbles woefully.”
“Don’t count yourself in with the rest of them, for heaven’s sakes!” exclaimed Alexis, his eyes hypnotized by the bronze aureole of her hair.
She encountered his gaze with a poised smile which for some inexplicable reason, angered him.
“But unfortunately, or fortunately, that is precisely where I belong,” she said without a tinge of her old bitterness.
“You may not have any talent for doing any one special thing,” he interrupted hotly, “but you, yourself, are so perfect, such a work of art. It must take genius to be just you. Let us say you are genius in the abstract.” He smiled at her in sheer pleasure at his own happy phrase.
She rose and putting her sketch on the table, smiled down upon him.
“You’re only a baby, after all, aren’t you? I think I shall call you my changeling. Come, changeling, how would you like to take a little stroll down to the lake? It is only a moment’s walk from here. We will take some cushions and you can lie back in my canoe and I’ll paddle you about for a while.”
He stood up eagerly and held out his arms for the gay cushions which she threw at him from the chaise-longue.
“I shall have to learn how to walk all over again,” he laughed as they started down the steps.