“You two make me think of that picture,” she said. “That is why I have given it to you, I believe. It is such a kind of heaven-and-earth place, with the upper air to breathe, and what little ballast there is would be flowers and pipes of Pan. But I don’t find fault with that. Personally I believe that is the only air there is, and I’m certain it’s the only proper ballast. You recognize the place in the picture, don’t you?”
We looked at each other in some alarm at the idea of being told; but we ought to have trusted Miss Deborah.
“‘A fountain of gardens,’” she quoted, “‘a well of living waters and streams from Lebanon. Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my garden, that the spices may flow out.’ I don’t know if that is what he meant,” she added, “but that is what he painted. ‘Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south,’ is undoubtedly what that shepherd is piping. Come to luncheon. Perhaps we shall find goat’s-milk cheese and Bibline wine and pure white honey. In case we do not, would steamed clams do?”
“Miss Deborah,” said Pelleas, as we followed her down the studio, “we mean to go to that garden, the real garden, you know. We’ve been saying so now.”
In the studio door she turned and faced us, nodding her understanding.
“Go there,” she said. “But whether you ever go to the real garden or not, mind you live in this one. And one thing more: Mind you pay your entrance fee,” she said.
At this, remembering as I do how our world was stuff of dreams, I think that we both must have looked a bit bewildered. Entrance fee. What had our fountain of gardens to do with an entrance fee?
“You don’t know what that means?” she said. “I thought as much. Then I think I must ask you to promise me something.”
She went across the hall to the dining-room, and we followed wondering.
“Just you keep the picture,” said Miss Deborah Ware, “until it will make some one else happier than it makes you. And then give it away. Will you remember? Do you get the idea of the entrance fee to the garden? And you promise? It’s just as I thought—we’ve steamed clams instead of ambrosia. Are you sorry you stopped?”