Being as free as air on this occasion (if I except the dread of
Benella's scorn, which descends upon us now and then, and moves us
to repentance, sometimes even to better behaviour), we passed
Porridgetown and Cloomore, and ferried across to the opposite side
of Lough Corrib. Salemina, of course, had fixed upon Cong as our
objective point, because of its caverns and archaeological remains,
which Dr. La Touche tells her not on any account to miss. Francesca
and I said nothing, but we had a very definite idea of avoiding
Cong, and going nearer Tuam, to climb Knockma, the hill of the
fairies, and explore their ancient haunts and archaeological
remains, which are more in our line than the caverns of Cong.
Speaking of Dr. La Touche reminds me that we have not the smallest
notion as to how our middle-aged romance is progressing. Absence
may, at this juncture, be just as helpful a force in its development
as daily intercourse would be; for when one is past thirty, I fancy
there is a deal of 'thinking-it-over' to do. Precious little there
is when we are younger; heart does it all then, and never asks
head's advice! But in too much delay there lies no plenty, and
there's the danger. Actually, Francesca and I could be no more
anxious to settle Salemina in life if she were lame, halt, blind,
and homeless, instead of being attractive, charming, absurdly young
for her age, and not without means. The difficulty is that she is
one of those 'continent, persisting, immovable persons' whom Emerson
describes as marked out for the blessing of the world.
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