The opera season
was over. There would be the dancing-places, but neither of the two
felt vivacity enough for dancing or watching others dance.
For lack of anything better, Jim proposed a drive. He was mad for
air and exercise. He would have preferred a long walk, and so would
Kedzie, but she could not have walked far without changing her
costume and her slippers.
She was glad of the chance to escape from the house. Jim rang for
Wotton and asked to have a car brought round. They put on light
wraps and went down the steps to the limousine.
The Avenue was lonely and the Park was lonelier. And, strangely, now
that they were together in the dark they felt happier; they drew more
closely together. They were common people now, and they had moonlight
and stars, a breeze and a shadowy landscape; they shared them with
the multitude, and they were happy for a while.
Something in Kedzie's heart whispered: "What's the use of being rich?
What's the good of living in a palace with a gang of servants hanging
over your shoulder? Happiness evidently doesn't come from ordering
whatever you want, for by the time somebody brings it to you you
don't want it any longer. Happiness must be the going after something
yourself and being anxious about it."
If she had listened to that airy whisperer she might have had an
inkling of a truth. But she dismissed philosophy as something stupid.
She turned into Jim's arms like a child afraid and clung to him,
moaning:
"Jim, what do I want? Tell me.
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