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It
was
a
poem
that
she
had
written
at
school
about
a
gray
convent
wall
on
a
gray
day
,
and
a
girl
with
her
cloak
blown
by
the
wind
sitting
atop
of
it
and
thinking
about
the
many-colored
world
.
As
a
rule
such
sentiment
bored
him
,
but
this
was
done
with
so
much
simplicity
and
atmosphere
,
that
it
brought
a
picture
of
Clara
to
his
mind
,
of
Clara
on
such
a
cool
,
gray
day
with
her
keen
blue
eyes
staring
out
,
trying
to
see
her
tragedies
come
marching
over
the
gardens
outside
.
He
envied
that
poem
.
How
he
would
have
loved
to
have
come
along
and
seen
her
on
the
wall
and
talked
nonsense
or
romance
to
her
,
perched
above
him
in
the
air
.
He
began
to
be
frightfully
jealous
of
everything
about
Clara
:
of
her
past
,
of
her
babies
,
of
the
men
and
women
who
flocked
to
drink
deep
of
her
cool
kindness
and
rest
their
tired
minds
as
at
an
absorbing
play
.
"
Nobody
seems
to
bore
you
,
"
he
objected
.
"
About
half
the
world
do
,
"
she
admitted
,
"
but
I
think
that
's
a
pretty
good
average
,
do
n't
you
?
"
and
she
turned
to
find
something
in
Browning
that
bore
on
the
subject
.
She
was
the
only
person
he
ever
met
who
could
look
up
passages
and
quotations
to
show
him
in
the
middle
of
the
conversation
,
and
yet
not
be
irritating
to
distraction
.
She
did
it
constantly
,
with
such
a
serious
enthusiasm
that
he
grew
fond
of
watching
her
golden
hair
bent
over
a
book
,
brow
wrinkled
ever
so
little
at
hunting
her
sentence
.
Through
early
March
he
took
to
going
to
Philadelphia
for
week-ends
.
Almost
always
there
was
some
one
else
there
and
she
seemed
not
anxious
to
see
him
alone
,
for
many
occasions
presented
themselves
when
a
word
from
her
would
have
given
him
another
delicious
half-hour
of
adoration
.
But
he
fell
gradually
in
love
and
began
to
speculate
wildly
on
marriage
.
Though
this
design
flowed
through
his
brain
even
to
his
lips
,
still
he
knew
afterward
that
the
desire
had
not
been
deeply
rooted
.
Once
he
dreamt
that
it
had
come
true
and
woke
up
in
a
cold
panic
,
for
in
his
dream
she
had
been
a
silly
,
flaxen
Clara
,
with
the
gold
gone
out
of
her
hair
and
platitudes
falling
insipidly
from
her
changeling
tongue
.
But
she
was
the
first
fine
woman
he
ever
knew
and
one
of
the
few
good
people
who
ever
interested
him
.
She
made
her
goodness
such
an
asset
.
Amory
had
decided
that
most
good
people
either
dragged
theirs
after
them
as
a
liability
,
or
else
distorted
it
to
artificial
geniality
,
and
of
course
there
were
the
ever-present
prig
and
Pharisee
--
(
but
Amory
never
included
them
as
being
among
the
saved
)
.
ST.
CECILIA
"
Over
her
gray
and
velvet
dress
,
Under
her
molten
,
beaten
hair
,
Color
of
rose
in
mock
distress
Flushes
and
fades
and
makes
her
fair
;
