We three, you, I, the girl, will go one
night to the Garden of Eden, where the birds wear tights and sing comic
songs in French, and the scent that comes from the flowers is patchouli,
and silk rustles instead of the leaves of the trees. We will go there on
boat-race night. Ah, the strength of the spring! On boat-race night it
beats with hammering pulses among the groves of the Garden of Eden."
Julian was surprised at this outburst, which sounded oddly deliberate,
and was apparently spoken without real impulse. He was surprised, but,
on consideration, he came to the conclusion that Valentine, having
silently debated the question of his own life, had resolved to make a
definite effort to see if he could change the course of it. Julian felt
that such an effort must be useless. He knew Valentine so intimately, he
thought,--knew the very groundwork of his nature,--that that nature was
too strong to be carved into a different, and possibly grotesque, form.
"Are you an experimentalist, Val?" he asked.
Valentine threw a rapid glance on him.
"I? I don't understand. Why should I experiment upon you?"
"No; not on me, but on yourself."
"Oh, I see what you mean. No, Julian; I prefer to let fate experiment
upon me.
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