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"But I _have_ to have a soul," he objected. "I can't be rational--and I
won't be molecular."
She leaned toward him, her burning eyes never leaving his own and
whispered with a sort of romantic finality:
"I thought so, Juan, I feared so--you're sentimental. You're not like
me. I'm a romantic little materialist."
"I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know, is
that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic
person has a desperate confidence that they won't." (This was an ancient
distinction of Amory's.)
"Epigrams. I'm going home," she said sadly. "Let's get off the haystack
and walk to the cross-roads."
They slowly descended from their perch. She would not let him help her
down and motioning him away arrived in a graceful lump in the soft mud
where she sat for an instant, laughing at herself. Then she jumped to
her feet and slipped her hand into his, and they tiptoed across the
fields, jumping and swinging from dry spot to dry spot. A transcendent
delight seemed to sparkle in every pool of water, for the moon had risen
and the storm had scurried away into western Maryland. When Eleanor's
arm touched his he felt his hands grow cold with deadly fear lest he
should lose the shadow brush with which his imagination was painting
wonders of her. He watched her from the corners of his eyes as ever he
did when he walked with her--she was a feast and a folly and he wished
it had been his destiny to sit forever on a haystack and see life
through her green eyes. His paganism soared that night and when she
faded out like a gray ghost down the road, a deep singing came out
of the fields and filled his way homeward. All night the summer moths
flitted in and out of Amory's window; all night large looming sounds
swayed in mystic revery through the silver grain--and he lay awake in
the clear darkness.
Amory selected a blade of grass and nibbled at it scientifically.
"I never fall in love in August or September," he proffered.
"Christmas or Easter. I'm a liturgist."
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