“More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. Behind the Avenue was a little hill, and an iron-fenced path went over the crest of this to a stile under an elm-tree, and forked there, with one branch going back into the Avenue again. “Whither away?” he said, very distinctly in a curiously wheedling voice. All her questions would have as a background the idea of future defence. One trouble, however, shot its slanting bolts athwart the shining warmth of that opening day and marred its perfection, and that was the thought of her father. She savored the sweetness of his lips, all of his great youth and passion and longed for his innocence, his complete lack of the knowledge of terrible things. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. I asked him—to take me away. .
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