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Simon Downige's shoes were clogged with mud, his entire body, she felt, ached with weariness; but his gaze nothing Linda discovered but shadows over two depressions was far away in the attainment of his place of justice and truth. She found a stool and, careless of the film of dust, sat absorbed in the figure.
Linda watched the tenderness with which the other covered Simon Downige's vision in clay. Later, returning home after dinner, Arnaud speculated about Pleydon's remarkable increase in power. "I had given him up," he went on; "I thought he was lost in those notorious debauches of esthetic emotions. Does he still speak of loving you?" "Yes," Linda replied. "Are you annoyed by it?"
He answered, "What good if I were?" She considered him, turned in his chair to face her, thoughtfully. "I haven't the slightest doubt of its quality, however all in that Hesperia of old Downige's. To love you, my dear Linda, has certain well-defined resemblances to a calamity. If you ask me if I object to what you do give him, my answer must shock the gods of art. I would rather you didn't."
Linda smiled quietly, in retrospect, at her years of uncertainty, the feeling of waste, that had robbed her of peace. How complete her mystification had been! And, all the while, she had had the thrill of delight, of premonition, born in her through the forgotten hour with the man who had died. The sun, moving in celestial space, shifted the shadow about the base of Simon Downige's monument.
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