Now his spirit could soar untrammelled.

It had taken its leap into the Empyrean.
He beheld his book beneath him dazzlingly clear.

Three months communing with nature, three months solitude on the pure mountain heights, three months calm discipline of the soul--that was what he needed.

Then to work, and in another three months, _currente calamo_, the book would be written.
"And what is Doria going to do on top of the Matterhorn ?" asked my wife.
Doria cried out, "Oh, don't tease.

We're not going near the Matterhorn.
We're going to read beautiful books, and see beautiful things and think beautiful thoughts." She dragged Barbara a step or two aside.