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137
The Solitary Summer
·
Elizabeth Von Arnim
37
"I
don't
know,"
I
replied,
"unless
it
is
that
the
world
is
very
evil
and
the
times
are
waxing
late,
but
that
doesn't
explain
anything
either,
because
it
isn't
true."
And
he
went
down
the
steps
laughing
and
shaking
his
head
and
muttering
something
that
I
could
not
quite
catch,
and
I
am
glad
I
could
not,
for
the
two
words
I
did
hear
were
women
and
nonsense.
He
has
developed
an
unexpected
passion
for
farming,
much
to
my
relief,
and
though
we
came
down
here
at
first
only
tentatively
for
a
year,
three
have
passed,
and
nothing
has
been
said
about
going
back
to
town.
Nor
will
anything
be
said
so
long
as
he
is
not
the
one
to
say
it,
for
no
three
years
of
my
life
can
come
up
to
these
in
happiness,
and
not
even
those
splendid
years
of
childhood
that
grow
brighter
as
they
recede
were
more
full
of
delights.
The
delights
are
simple,
it
is
true,
and
of
the
sort
that
easily
provoke
a
turning
up
of
the
worldling's
nose;
but
who
cares
for
noses
that
turn
up?
I
am
simple
myself,
and
never
tire
of
the
blessed
liberty
from
all
restraints.
Even
such
apparently
indifferent
details
as
being
able
to
walk
straight
out
of
doors
without
first
getting
into
a
hat
and
gloves
and
veil
are
full
of
a
subtle
charm
that
is
ever
fresh,
and
of
which
I
can
never
have
too
much.
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