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She
thought
a
moment
.
"
Oh
,
I
suppose
heaven
would
,
if
there
was
one
,
"
she
said
finally
,
"
a
sort
of
pagan
heaven
--
you
ought
to
be
a
materialist
,
"
she
continued
irrelevantly
.
"
Why
?
"
"
Because
you
look
a
good
deal
like
the
pictures
of
Rupert
Brooke
.
"
To
some
extent
Amory
tried
to
play
Rupert
Brooke
as
long
as
he
knew
Eleanor
.
What
he
said
,
his
attitude
toward
life
,
toward
her
,
toward
himself
,
were
all
reflexes
of
the
dead
Englishman
's
literary
moods
.
Often
she
sat
in
the
grass
,
a
lazy
wind
playing
with
her
short
hair
,
her
voice
husky
as
she
ran
up
and
down
the
scale
from
Grantchester
to
Waikiki
.
There
was
something
most
passionate
in
Eleanor
's
reading
aloud
.
They
seemed
nearer
,
not
only
mentally
,
but
physically
,
when
they
read
,
than
when
she
was
in
his
arms
,
and
this
was
often
,
for
they
fell
half
into
love
almost
from
the
first
.
Yet
was
Amory
capable
of
love
now
?
He
could
,
as
always
,
run
through
the
emotions
in
a
half
hour
,
but
even
while
they
revelled
in
their
imaginations
,
he
knew
that
neither
of
them
could
care
as
he
had
cared
once
before
--
I
suppose
that
was
why
they
turned
to
Brooke
,
and
Swinburne
,
and
Shelley
.
Their
chance
was
to
make
everything
fine
and
finished
and
rich
and
imaginative
;
they
must
bend
tiny
golden
tentacles
from
his
imagination
to
hers
,
that
would
take
the
place
of
the
great
,
deep
love
that
was
never
so
near
,
yet
never
so
much
of
a
dream
.
One
poem
they
read
over
and
over
;
Swinburne
's
"
Triumph
of
Time
,
"
and
four
lines
of
it
rang
in
his
memory
afterward
on
warm
nights
when
he
saw
the
fireflies
among
dusky
tree
trunks
and
heard
the
low
drone
of
many
frogs
.
Then
Eleanor
seemed
to
come
out
of
the
night
and
stand
by
him
,
and
he
heard
her
throaty
voice
,
with
its
tone
of
a
fleecy-headed
drum
,
repeating
:
"
Is
it
worth
a
tear
,
is
it
worth
an
hour
,
To
think
of
things
that
are
well
outworn
;
Of
fruitless
husk
and
fugitive
flower
,
The
dream
foregone
and
the
deed
foreborne
?
"
