For the first time in his life Howard experienced the extraordinary
sensation of having nothing to do, no plans ahead, nothing but the
delight of the hour to taste. One day he said to Maud, "It seems
almost wicked to be so deliciously idle--some day I suppose we must
make some plans. But I do not seem ever to have lived before; and
all that I ever did and thought of seems as small and trivial as a
little town seen from the top of a tower--one can't conceive what
the little creatures are about in their tiny slits of streets and
stuffy houses, crawling about like beetles on some ridiculous
business. The first thing I shall do when I get back will be to
burn my old book; such wretched, stodgy, unenlightened stuff as it
all is; like the fancies of a blind man about the view of a
landscape."
"Oh no, you mustn't do that," said Maud. "I have set my heart on
your writing a great book. You must do that--you must finish this
one. I am not going to keep you all to myself, like a man pushing
about a perambulator."
"Well, I will begin a new book," said Howard, "and steal an old
title. It shall be called Love is Enough."
On the last night before they left the cottage they talked long
about things past, present, and to come.
"Now," said Maud, "I am not going to be a gushing and sentimental
young bride any more. I am not sentimental, best-beloved! Do you
believe that? The time we have had here together has been the best
and sweetest time of my whole life, every minute worth all the
years that went before.
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