The nicest thing about Concord, Grover decided, was not the faint aroma of Thoreau, Hawthorne, Emerson, and Louisa Alcott, but the way the Chinese wall-paper went behind Sophie's brown and amber silhouette, as she sat with her elbows on the table at the inn.
"You were Chinese in a former reincarnation if there would have been any, Sophie," he declared. "You have their serenity, and their kind of translucent teeth, and their kind of puckery smile, as though the things that made you laugh were a trifle tart to the taste."
"But I laugh at you," protested Sophie, "and you're no quince. You're very sweet."
"Perhaps I am, but with your private thoughts sprinkled on me I'm puckery, ever so slightly. Pure sweetness would bore you."
Sophie's eyes softened. She patted his hand. "You're a strange boy; you've seen so little, but you see so well."
After lunch they walked through the village, passing at intervals historic houses, till they reached the open countryside. Intimidated by a troop of turkeys on the edge of the road, they joined hands, and proceeded in that fashion toward fields and groves where they imagined Thoreau had roamed and meditated.
"Do you like Walden?" asked Sophie.
"Never read it. Do you?"
"Neither have I."
