THE SECOND TALK ON THE HILLS "But to think," said Antony presently, in answer to Beatrice's soothing hand, "to think that I might have lived with a child--and I chose instead to live with words.

In all the mysterious ways of man, is there anything quite so mysterious as that?
Poor dream-led fool, poor lover of coloured shadows! "And yet, how proud I was of the madness! How I loved to say that words were more beautiful than the things for which they stood, and that the names of the world's beautiful women, Sappho, Fiametta, Guinivere, were more beautiful than Sappho, Fiametta, Guinivere themselves; that the names of the stars were lovelier than any star--who has ever found the Pleiades so beautiful as their name, or any king so great as the sound of Orion ?--and what, anywhere in the Universe, is lovely enough to bear Arcturus for its name ?--Ah! you know how I used to talk--poor fool, poor lover of coloured shadows!" "Yes, dear," said Beatrice soothingly, "but that is passed now, and you must not dwell too persistently in the sorrow of it, or in your grief for little Wonder.

That too is to dwell with shadows, and to dwell with shadows either of grief or joy is dangerous for the soul." "I know.

But fear not, Beatrice.

Perhaps there was the danger of my passing from one cloudland to another--for I never knew how I loved our Wonder till now, and I longed, if only by imagination, to follow her where she has gone, and share with her the life together we have lost here--" "But that can never be," said Beatrice; "you must accept it, Antony.