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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
2
The
Man
of
Wrath
sat
at
the
foot
of
the
verandah
steps
in
that
placid
after-dinner
mood
which
suffers
fools,
if
not
gladly,
at
least
indulgently,
and
I
stood
in
front
of
him,
leaning
against
the
sun-dial.
"Shall
you
take
a
book
with
you?"
he
asked.
"Yes,
I
shall,"
I
replied,
slightly
nettled
by
his
tone.
"I
am
quite
ready
to
admit
that
though
the
fields
and
flowers
are
always
ready
to
teach,
I
am
not
always
in
the
mood
to
learn,
and
sometimes
my
eyes
are
incapable
of
seeing
things
that
at
other
times
are
quite
plain."
"And
then
you
read?"
"And
then
I
read.
Well,
dear
Sage,
what
of
that?"
But
he
smoked
in
silence,
and
seemed
suddenly
absorbed
by
the
stars.
"See,"
he
said,
after
a
pause,
during
which
I
stood
looking
at
him
and
wishing
he
would
use
longer
sentences,
and
he
looked
at
the
sky
and
did
not
think
about
me
at
all,
"see
how
bright
the
stars
are
to-night.
Almost
as
though
it
might
freeze."
"It
isn't
going
to
freeze,
and
I
won't
look
at
anything
until
you
have
told
me
what
you
think
of
my
idea.
Wouldn't
a
whole
lovely
summer,
quite
alone,
be
delightful?
Wouldn't
it
be
perfect
to
get
up
every
morning
for
weeks
and
feel
that
you
belong
to
yourself
and
to
nobody
else?"
And
I
went
over
to
him
and
put
a
hand
on
each
shoulder
and
gave
him
a
little
shake,
for
he
persisted
in
gazing
at
the
stars
just
as
though
I
had
not
been
there.
"Please,
Man
of
Wrath,
say
something
long
for
once,"
I
entreated;
"you
haven't
said
a
good
long
sentence
for
a
week."
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