The wind, however, is tempered to the shorn lamb by her eyes
being set too closely together.
Irais lit a cigarette, and leaning back in her chair,
contemplated her critically beneath her long eyelashes.
"You are writing a book?" she asked presently.
"Well--yes, I suppose I may say that I am. Just my impressions,
you know, of your country. Anything that strikes me as curious
or amusing--I jot it down, and when I have time shall work it up
into something, I daresay."
"Are you not studying painting? "
"Yes, but I can't study that for ever. We have an English proverb:
'Life is short and Art is long'--too long, I sometimes think--
and writing is a great relaxation when I am tired."
"What shall you call it?"
"Oh, I thought of calling it Journeyings in Germany.
It sounds well, and would be correct. Or Jottings from
German Journeyings,--I haven't quite decided yet which."
"By the author of Prowls in Pomerania, you might add," suggested Irais.
"And Drivel from Dresden," said I.
"And Bosh from Berlin," added Irais.
Minora stared. "I don't think those two last ones would do,"
she said, "because it is not to be a facetious book.
But your first one is rather a good title," she added,
looking at Irais and drawing out her note-book.
Pages:
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145