though one could never give one's strength out to such petty things
any more."

Wyllis brushed the ashes of his pipe away from the silk
handkerchief that was knotted about his neck and stared moodily off
at the skyline.

"No, you're mistaken. This would bore you after a while. You
can't shake the fever of the other life. I've tried it. There was
a time when the gay fellows of Rome could trot down into the
Thebaid and burrow into the sandhills and get rid of it. But it's
all too complex now. You see we've made our dissipations so dainty
and respectable that they've gone further in than the flesh, and
taken hold of the ego proper. You couldn't rest, even here. The
war cry would follow you."

"You don't waste words, Wyllis, but you never miss fire. I
talk more than you do, without saying half so much. You must have
learned the art of silence from these taciturn Norwegians. I think
I like silent men."

"Naturally," said Wyllis, "since you have decided to marry the most
brilliant talker you know."

Both were silent for a time, listening to the sighing of the
hot wind through the parched morning-glory vines. Margaret spoke
first.

"Tell me, Wyllis, were many of the Norwegians you used to know
as interesting as Eric Hermannson?"