I would have climbed ten mountains to meet Antoinette Frothingham." "I've been watching you, you son of Dixie," said St.George darkly; "don't you lose your head just when you need it most." "I have a notion yours is gone," defended Amory critically, "and mine is only going." "That's twice as dangerous," St.George wisely opined; "besides--mine is different." "So is mine," said Amory, "so is everybody's." St.George stepped through the long window to the terrace.

Amory didn't care whether anybody listened; he simply longed to talk, and St.George had things to think about.

He crossed the terrace to the south, and went back to the very spot where he and Olivia had stood; and there, because the night would have it no other way, he stretched along the broad wall among the vines, and lit his pipe, and lay looking out at sea.

Here he was, liberated from the business of "buzzing in a corner, trifling with monosyllables," set upon a field pleasant with hazard and without paths, to move in the primal experiences where words themselves are born.

Better and more intimate names for everything seemed now almost within his ken.
He had longed unspeakably to go pilgriming, and he had forthwith been permitted to leave the world behind with its thickets and thresholds, its hesitations and confusions, its marching armies, breakfasts, friendships and the like, and to live on the edge of what will be.