" And, to tease her and arouse her to combat: "I
prefer a farandole to a nocturne; I'd rather have a painting than an
etching; Mr. Whistler bores me with his monochromatic mud; I don't like
dull colours, dull sounds, dull intellects; and anything called 'an
arrangement' on canvas, or anything called 'a human document' or 'an
appreciation' in literature, or anything 'precious' in art, or any
author who 'weaves' instead of writes his stories--all these irritate
me when they do not first bore me to the verge of anaesthesia."
He switched his trout-flies defiantly, hopeful of an indignant retort
from her; but she only laughed and glanced at him, and shook her pretty
head.
"There's just enough truth in what you say to make a dispute quite
profitless. Besides, I don't feel like single combat; I'm too glad to
have you here."
Standing there--fairly swimming--in the delicious upper-air currents,
she looked blissfully across the rolling moors, while the sunlight
drenched her and the salt wind winnowed the ruddy glory of her hair, and
from the tangle of tender blossoming green things a perfume mounted,
saturating her senses as she breathed it deeper in the happiness of
desire fulfilled and content quite absolute.
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