Her husband spoke. He was repeating something, and she knew it waspoetry from the rhythm and the ring of exultation, and melancholy in hisvoice:
Come out and climb the garden path, Luriana Lurilee. The China roseis all abloom and buzzing with the yellow bee.
The words (she was looking at the window) sounded as if they werefloating like flowers on water out there, cut off from them all, as if no onehad said them, but they had come into existence of themselves.
And all the lives we ever lived and all the lives to be Are full of treesand changing leaves.
She did not know what they meant, but, like music, the words seemedto be spoken by her own voice, outside her self, saying quite easily andnaturally what had been in her mind the whole evening while she saiddifferent things. She knew, without looking round, that every one at thetable was listening to the voice saying:
I wonder if it seems to you, Luriana, Lurileewith the same sort of relief and pleasure that she had, as if this were, atlast, the natural thing to say, this were their own voice speaking.
But the voice had stopped. She looked round. She made herself get up.
Augustus Carmichael had risen and, holding his table napkin so that itlooked like a long white robe he stood chanting: