“There’s old Mrs. Munro, feeling her way out─blinder each year, poor woman—on this slippery floor.”
Eyeless old age, grey-headed Sphinx.. . . There she stands on the pavement, beckoning, so sternly, the red omnibus.
“How lovely! How well they play! How—how—how!”
The tongue is but a clapper. Simplicity itself. The feathers in the hat next me are bright and pleasing as a child’s rattle. The leaf on the plane-tree flashes green through the chink in the curtain. Very strange, very exciting.
“How—how—how!” Hush!
These are the lovers on the grass.
“If, madam, you will take my hand—”
“Sir, I would trust you with my heart. Moreover, we have left our bodies in the banqueting hall. Those on the turf are the shadows of our souls.”
“Then these are the embraces of our souls.” The lemons nod assent. The swan pushes from
