“No; it was nothing to be kissed by Quentin—no more than my father’s kiss, or Ruby’s, or the peck of a bird—except that his beard was prickly and he smelt a good deal of wine. That’s why I must ask you questions. I don’t ask for facts. I know facts. I want to know how it can ever become so that they don’t obtrude rather unpleasantly on one’s consciousness. Do they ever stand out of the way of passion, Ambrose? Is there a desire that burns them all up into nothing?” He was silent. “It is possible that you do not know,” she said slowly. “You must give me time, if I am to answer you fully. The subject is important, and wide.” “Do you mean to write me an essay?” “Not precisely.” He, too, considered. “It will take me some little while to arrange the logic, the perspective, of my reply.” “Oh, well; take time over it, if you must. But I’m not often in the mood to ask you things.” “In the meantime, I take it you have been disappointed?” “I only hope Quentin was as disappointed as I was.” “You won’t be ashamed with him? You don’t mind meeting him again?” “But why? After all, I disappointed him. It’s for him to be ashamed if he can’t do better than that. He got nothing from me but my will to experiment, and I easily made it seem as if he was in fault. He went off feeling ridiculous, I fancy. But look! they’re asking for bread.” There was always bread in her pockets. The splendid birds were clustered at the edge of the lawn, and she ran down and fed them, and put her slender white hands among their plumage. The god-like leader dug at her with his beak. “How he stares! How insolent he is!” she exclaimed. “He pesters me—like Quentin.” She retired a little. The great bird followed, bridling and opening his wings and frowning on her like a Jupiter. She stood still and taut, fascinated. Suddenly he spread his huge wings about her and laid his scarlet beak on her breast. She stood in his embrace for a moment, with thrown-back head, and his beak moved on the slender stalk of her throat. Then, swiftly and calmly, she disengaged herself and ran to Ambrose. The swan seemed quite crestfallen. “Look! I’ve disappointed him,” she said. “For my part, I prefer him to Quentin, but not very much.” “You are a great mystery, my water-lily,” Ambrose replied. They made their way back along the sides of the hills. 19