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Tumult will die over the trees)
Now night
Tears from her wetted breast the splattered blouse
Of day, glides down the dreaming hills, tear-bright,
To cover with her hair the eerie green …
Love for the dusk … Love for the glistening after;
Quiet the trees to their last tops … serene …
Faint winds, and far away a fading laughter …”
— ◆ —
Chapter 4.
The Supercilious Sacrifice
Atlantic City. Amory paced the board walk at day’s end, lulled by the everlasting surge of changing waves, smelling the half-mournful odor of the salt breeze. The sea, he thought, had treasured its memories deeper than the faithless land. It seemed still to whisper of Norse galleys ploughing the water world under raven-figured flags, of the British dreadnoughts, gray bulwarks of civilization steaming up through the fog of one dark July into the North Sea.
“Well—Amory Blaine!”
Amory looked down into the street below. A low racing car had drawn to a stop and a familiar cheerful face protruded from the driver’s seat.
“Come on down, goopher!” cried Alec.