"Ah, don't be too sure," she murmured.
"Everything is different!" he repeated, with confident emphasis.
"Don't you see yourself it is?"
"You say it is," she replied, hesitatingly, "but that
alone doesn't make it so. The assertion that life
isn't empty doesn't fill it."
"Ah, but NOW you will talk with me about all that,"
he broke in triumphantly. "We've been standing off with
one another. We've been of no help to each other. But we'll
change that, now. We'll talk over everything together.
We'll make up our minds exactly what we want to do,
and then I'll tuck you under my arm and we'll set out
and do it."
She smiled with kindly tolerance for his new-born enthusiasm.
"Don't count on me for too much wisdom or invention,"
she warned him. "If things are to be done, you are still
the one who will have to do them. But undoubtedly you
are at your best when you are doing things. This really
has been no sort of life for you, here."
He gathered her arm into his. "Come and show me your greenhouses,"
he said, and began walking toward the end of the terrace.
"It'll turn out to have been all right for me, this year
that I've spent here," he continued, as they strolled along.
There was a delightful consciousness of new intimacy
conveyed by the very touch of her arm, which filled his tone
with buoyancy.
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