and there will be no time to explain what could be explained so simply. . . . But tonight it seemed to Linda there was something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that tender, joyful beauty into its own bosom.
“It’s all wrong, it’s all wrong,” came the shadowy voice of Jonathan. “It’s not the scene, it’s not the setting for . . . three stools, three desks, three inkpots and a wire blind.”
Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, “Is it too late, even now?”
“I’m old—I’m old,” intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his hand over his head. “Look!” His black hair was speckled all over with silver, like the breast plumage of a black fowl.
Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first time, not resolute, not gallant, not careless, but touched already with age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed her mind, “He is like a weed.”
Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers.
“Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine,” he murmured. “I must go seek those heirs to my fame and fortune. . . .” He was gone.
