"Red apples and snow!" he repeated. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. He took up his hat and went. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. My mind is full of ideas and images that I have been cherishing and accumulating—dreams of travelling side by side, of lunching quietly together in some jolly restaurant, of moonlight and music and all that side of life, of seeing you dressed like a queen and shining in some brilliant throng—mine; of your looking at flowers in some old-world garden, our garden—there are splendid places to be got down in Surrey, and a little runabout motor is quite within my means. I keep on thinking of you.
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