She thought of John Benham easily now; and while she stood there a quiet
happiness shone in her eyes. After the storm and stress of twenty years,
life in this Indian summer of the emotions was like an enclosed garden
of sweetness and bloom. She had had enough of hunger and rapture and
disappointment. Never again would she take up the old search for
perfection, for the starry flower of the heights. Something that she
could worship! So often in the past it had seemed to her that she missed
it by the turn of a corner, the stop on the roadside, by the choice of a
path that led down into the valley instead of up into the hills. So
often her god had revealed the feet of clay just as she was preparing to
scatter marigolds on his altar. It appeared to her as she looked back on
the past, that life had been merely a succession of great opportunities
that one did not grasp, of high adventures that one never followed.
The sound of a motor horn interrupted her reverie, and she saw that a
big open car, with a green body, had turned the corner and was about to
stop at her door.
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