It was living within his mind and
heart, he said. Waymark listened to him whilst he unfolded book
after book of glorious vision; listened, and wondered.
There was a splendid sunset one evening at this time, and the two
watched it together from the room in which they always sat. Seas of
molten gold, strands and promontories of jasper and amethyst,
illimitable mountain-ranges, cities of unimagined splendour, all
were there in that extent of evening sky. They watched it till the
vision wasted before the breath of night.
"What shall I read?" Waymark asked, when the lamp was lit.
"Read that passage in the Georgics which glorifies Italy," Julian
replied. "It will suit my mood to-night."
Waymark took down his Virgil.
"Sed neque Medorum silvae, ditissima terra,
Nec pulcher Ganges atque auro turbibus Hermus
Laudibus Italiae certent, non Bactra, neque Indi,
Totaque turiferis Panchaia pinguis arenis."
Julian's eyes glistened as the melody rolled on, and when it ceased,
both were quiet for a time.
"Waymark," Julian said presently, a gentle tremor in his voice, "why
do we never speak of her?"
"_Can_ we speak of her?" Waymark returned, knowing well who was
meant.
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