It did not detract from Peter's ardor that his intellect was away for an instant in a rather skeptical study of Metz Wyndham's life. To Peter had come glimpses of the magnificent selfishness of this prophet of the people. Did all great men have such an ego? If their lives were closely examined would they all reveal, in their intimate and familiar relations, the most subtle and insidious forms of self-service? In fact, was not the mighty _ego_ the source of their record-making in the world? ... Peter banished this rush of conjectures. Whatever the father, the whole art of the life of Metz Wyndham's daughter was the loss of the love of self.
“I feel before you,” he said, “as I once felt in the vineyards beneath Vesuvius.”
She smiled at him. “There are several ways to take that.”
“Just one that I mean--and no explanation.”
“... Peter, our last day together--all shadowy background to be put away--”
“And breakfast to occupy the immediate fore.”
He went out into the street to purchase certain essentials, found some tall white flowers, and a copper vase to put them in. They were hungry, after the long night, and their happiness was the exquisite moments which they found between the darkenings. They would not permit the parting altogether to pervade. Her face was lustrous white; her eyes made him think of those gray days on the ocean, in which one can see great distances. More of a girl than ever she seemed to him, with her black hair combed loosely back and hanging in a pair of braids. The flowers stood tall between them.
“War weather like this makes one grow quickly,” he said. “To think how easy and content we thought ourselves--even three days ago. Now, I want to say, 'Come, Berthe--come with me....' I want to take you to some quiet place, back in the States, in the country by the water. Yes, north country--by some lake that would be frozen when we got there. That's where the silence is, that winter silence. A cabin, a roaring fire--you and I together, alone. It seems you would be safe there, and I could begin to be satisfied--“.
“Peter, Peter--don't make heavens to-day!”
“It's your particular heaven. No other would ever have made me think of _winter_--of something austere and silent for you to ignite.”