After a little
Margaret
said she was tired, and, sitting on a
garden-seat among the bushes, began telling him the plots of novels
lately read by her.
garden-seat among the bushes, began telling him the plots of novels
lately read by her.
Yeats
'--this with a great sigh.
'When the Fates are weaving our web of life some mischievous goblin
always runs off with the dye-pot. Everything is dull and grey. Am I
looking a little pale? I have been so very ill. '
'A little bit pale, perhaps,' he said, doubtfully.
The Square gate brought them to a stop. It was locked, but she had the
key. The lock was stiff, but turned easily for John Sherman.
'How strong you are,' she said.
It was an iridescent evening of spring. The leaves of the bushes had
still their faint green. As Margaret darted about at the tennis, a red
feather in her cap seemed to rejoice with its wearer. Everything was at
once gay and tranquil. The whole world had that unreal air it assumes
at beautiful moments, as though it might vanish at a touch like an
iridescent soap-bubble.
After a little Margaret said she was tired, and, sitting on a
garden-seat among the bushes, began telling him the plots of novels
lately read by her. Suddenly she cried: 'The novel-writers were all
serious people like you. They are so hard on people like me. They
always make us come to a bad end. They _say_ we are always acting,
acting, acting; and what else do you serious people do? You act before
the world. I think, do you know, _we_ act before ourselves. All the
old foolish kings and queens in history were like us. They laughed and
beckoned and went to the block for no very good purpose. I daresay the
headsmen were like you. '
'We would never cut off so pretty a head. '
'Oh, yes, you would--you would cut off mine to-morrow. ' All this she
said vehemently, piercing him with her bright eyes. 'You would cut off
my head to-morrow,' she repeated, almost fiercely; 'I tell you you
would. '
Her departure was always unexpected, her moods changed with so much
rapidity. 'Look!
'When the Fates are weaving our web of life some mischievous goblin
always runs off with the dye-pot. Everything is dull and grey. Am I
looking a little pale? I have been so very ill. '
'A little bit pale, perhaps,' he said, doubtfully.
The Square gate brought them to a stop. It was locked, but she had the
key. The lock was stiff, but turned easily for John Sherman.
'How strong you are,' she said.
It was an iridescent evening of spring. The leaves of the bushes had
still their faint green. As Margaret darted about at the tennis, a red
feather in her cap seemed to rejoice with its wearer. Everything was at
once gay and tranquil. The whole world had that unreal air it assumes
at beautiful moments, as though it might vanish at a touch like an
iridescent soap-bubble.
After a little Margaret said she was tired, and, sitting on a
garden-seat among the bushes, began telling him the plots of novels
lately read by her. Suddenly she cried: 'The novel-writers were all
serious people like you. They are so hard on people like me. They
always make us come to a bad end. They _say_ we are always acting,
acting, acting; and what else do you serious people do? You act before
the world. I think, do you know, _we_ act before ourselves. All the
old foolish kings and queens in history were like us. They laughed and
beckoned and went to the block for no very good purpose. I daresay the
headsmen were like you. '
'We would never cut off so pretty a head. '
'Oh, yes, you would--you would cut off mine to-morrow. ' All this she
said vehemently, piercing him with her bright eyes. 'You would cut off
my head to-morrow,' she repeated, almost fiercely; 'I tell you you
would. '
Her departure was always unexpected, her moods changed with so much
rapidity. 'Look!
