“She believes,” Pelleas meditated, “that our sun is the largest body in all the systems and that our moon is next in size. But for all that she knows Helping is why. That the carpenter must encourage the goldsmith. Yes, Nichola must be acted on by emanations.”
We sat silent for a little. Then,
“Do you remember,” I asked irrelevantly—but I am not sure that there is such a thing as irrelevance—“how you insisted that every one in the world who is worth anything loves some one as much as we do, or else expects to do so, or else is unhappy because the love went wrong?”
“And it’s true,” said Pelleas.
“For all but Hobart,” I assented; “it was true for Miss Willie and for Nichola. But not for Hobart. And I have been wondering how any one who is not in love can live through a Christmas without falling in love. Christmas seems a kind of loving-cup of days.”
“We should sing it,” Pelleas suggested,
“Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly:
High love is high wisdom, to love not is folly:”
“That is the way it really is,” said I comfortably; and then I woke to the other realities. “Pelleas,” I cried, “where is Hobart?”
Where was Hobart Eddy indeed? It was quite ten minutes since he had gone with the Canary Lady’s cup, and I had charged him not to stay at all.