The year and a half of
her life with Fiorsen, the empty months that followed it were gone,
dispersed like mist by the radiance of the last three years in whose
sky had hung just one cloud, no bigger than a hand, of doubt whether
Summerhay really loved her as much as she loved him, whether from her
company he got as much as the all she got from his. She would not have
been her distrustful self if she could have settled down in complacent
security; and her mind was ever at stretch on that point, comparing past
days and nights with the days and nights of the present. Her prevision
that, when she loved, it would be desperately, had been fulfilled. He
had become her life. When this befalls one whose besetting strength and
weakness alike is pride--no wonder that she doubts.
For their Odyssey they had gone to Spain--that brown un-European land of
"lyrio" flowers, and cries of "Agua!" in the streets, where the men seem
cleft to the waist when they are astride of horses, under their wide
black hats, and the black-clothed women with wonderful eyes still look
as if they missed their Eastern veils. It had been a month of gaiety and
glamour, last days of September and early days of October, a revel
of enchanted wanderings in the streets of Seville, of embraces and
laughter, of strange scents and stranger sounds, of orange light and
velvety shadows, and all the warmth and deep gravity of Spain.
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