She took her passion with
the weight of a thing ordained; she had come upon it
where it waited for her, and they had gone on together,
carrying the secret. There might be farther to go, but
the way could never be long.
Finlay said when he came in that the heat for May was
extraordinary; and Advena reminded him that he was in a
country where everything was accomplished quickly, even
summer.
"Except perhaps civilization." she added. They were both
young enough to be pleased with cleverness for its specious
self.
"Oh, that is slow everywhere," he observed; "but how you
can say so, with every modern improvement staring you in
the face--"
"Electric cars and telephones! Oh, I didn't say we hadn't
the products," and she laughed. "But the thing itself,
the precious thing; that never comes just by wishing,
does it? The art of indifference, the art of choice--"
"If you had refinements in the beginning what would the
end be?" he demanded. "Anaemia."
"Oh, I don't quarrel with the logic of it. I only point
out the fact. To do that is to acquiesce, really. I
acquiesce; I have to. But one may long for the more
delicate appreciations that seem to flower where life
has gone on longer."
"I imagine," Finlay said, "that to wish truly and ardently
for such things is to possess them.
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