What do you think of it ?" St.George did not answer.
"It's a place where all the lines lead up," he was saying to himself, "as they do in a cathedral." The four went the fragrant way that led to the heart of the island.
First the path followed the high bank the branches of whose tropical undergrowth brushed their faces with brief gift of perfume.

On the other side was a wood of slim trunks, all depths of shadow and delicacies of borrowed light in little pools.

Everywhere, everywhere was a chorus of slight voices, from bark and air and secret moss, singing no forced notes of monotone, but piping a true song of the gladness of earth, plaintive, sweet, indescribably harmonious.

It came to St.George that this was the way the woods at night would always sound if, somehow, one were able to hear the sweetness that poured itself out.

Even that familiar sense in the night-woods that something is about to happen was deliciously present with him; and though Amory went on quietly enough, St.George swam down that green way, much as one dreams of floating along a street, above-heads.
The path curved, and went hesitatingly down many terraces.