“During that bland moment they will loosen their belt. “When they were eight or nine years old and found a fine, ripe, juicy-plum patch, and while they were picking plums a balloon suddenly appeared over their heads, their first delirious impulse was to leave all and follow the balloon over hill and dale to the very earth’s end. “But even though a real live balloon went sailing over their heads, they considered this: that _some other kids would get our plums that we had found_. A balloon was glorious--a balloon was divine--but even so, there was a bland moment in which the thought of some vicious, tow-headed Swede children from over the hill, who would rush in on the plums, came just in time to make the balloon pall on them. “But,” said my friend Annabel Lee, “by the same token, in talking over the balloon after it had vanished down the sky, there would come another bland moment when the plums would pall upon them--pall completely, and would appear hateful in their eyes for having kept from them the joy of following the divine balloon. That is another aspect of the flat surfaces of things. And they must all come out upon the flat surfaces, willy-nilly. “And,” said Annabel Lee, glancing at me as my mind was dimly wistful; “not only must they come out upon the flat surfaces of things, but also you and I must come, willy-nilly. “And since we _must_ come, willy-nilly,” added the lady, “then why not stay out upon the flat surfaces? Certainly ’twill save the trouble of coming next time. Perhaps, however, it’s all in the coming.” III MY FRIEND ANNABEL LEE My friend Annabel Lee never fails to fascinate and confound me. Much as she gives, there is in her infinitely more to get. My relation with her never goes on, and it never goes back. It leads nowhere. She and I stop together in the midst of our situation and look about us. And what we see in the looking about is all and enough to consider. And considering, I write of it. IV BOSTON Yesterday the lady was in her most amiable mood, and we talked together--about Boston, it so happened. “Do you like Boston?” she asked me. “Yes,” I replied; “I am fond of Boston. It fascinates me.” “But not fonder of it than of Butte, in Montana?” “Oh, no,” said I, hastily. “Butte in Montana is my first love. There are barren mountains there--they are with me always. Boston doesn’t go to my heart in the least, but I like it much. I like to live here.” “I am fond of Boston--sometimes,” Annabel Lee observed. “Here by the sea it is not quite Boston. It is everything. This sea washes down by enchanted purple islands and touches at the coast of Spain. But if one can but turn one’s eyes from it for a moment, Boston is a fine and good thing, and interesting.” “I think it is--from several points of view,” I agreed. “Tell me what you find that interests you in Boston,” said my friend Annabel Lee.