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Updated: May 19, 2025
Just outside the window a quince-tree in full blossom reared extravagant masses of pink snow against the blue overhead; beyond it a covered walk of vines shone golden-green. There was not a cloud in the sky. To turn back to the musty room from all this lush and lovely life was like stepping down into a vault. John had sunk into a seat before a secretaire, and shielded his eyes from the sun.
He loves it, does he not?" "Yes," said Kirk, aghast at the sudden bitter sorrow in the gentle voice. "Why?" "The sea is a tyrant. Those she claims, she never releases. I know." He stood among the gently falling blossoms of the big quince-tree by the terrace. Then he suddenly drew Kirk to him, and said: "I spoke of the garden being filled, to me, with the memory of children; did I not?"
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