After a long fifteen seconds, she pulled her head back into the seat, looking at his face from the close angle, his nose huge and out of perspective, his eyes like round blue pearls. “You see,” he said, “from my point of view you’re grown up— you’re as old as all the goddesses and the contemporary of any man alive. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it.
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