. . ” “It is hard to be distant from your own mother. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind. It was a mass of knick-knacks. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “I must live, you know. McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. We all did that in our youth, when first we came upon a fine story; else we were worthless metal indeed. His heart hammered in his chest. The Bach Cantata was played fairly well, Sebastian thought, for a lot of children. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. That night in his den he smoked many pipes.
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