По эту сторону рая

           Hecouldnotreconcilehimselftoherbeauty,thatwasmothertohisown,theexquisiteneckandshoulders,thegraceofafortunatewomanofthirty.

           "Amory,dear,"shecroonedsoftly,"Ihadsuchastrange,weirdtimeafterIleftyou."

           "Didyou,Beatrice?"

           "WhenIhadmylastbreakdown"—shespokeofitasasturdy,gallantfeat.

           "Thedoctorstoldme"—hervoicesangonaconfidentialnote—"thatifanymanalivehaddonetheconsistentdrinkingthatIhave,hewouldhavebeenphysicallyshattered,mydear,andinhisgrave—longinhisgrave."

           Amorywinced,andwonderedhowthiswouldhavesoundedtoFroggyParker.

           "Yes,"continuedBeatricetragically,"Ihaddreams—wonderfulvisions."Shepressedthepalmsofherhandsintohereyes."Isawbronzeriverslappingmarbleshores,andgreatbirdsthatsoaredthroughtheair,parti-coloredbirdswithiridescentplumage.Iheardstrangemusicandtheflareofbarbarictrumpets—what?"

           Amoryhadsnickered.

           "What,Amory?"

           "Isaidgoon,Beatrice."

           "Thatwasall—itmerelyrecurredandrecurred—gardensthatflauntedcoloringagainstwhichthiswouldbequitedull,moonsthatwhirledandswayed,palerthanwintermoons,moregoldenthanharvestmoons—"

           "Areyouquitewellnow,Beatrice?"

           "Quitewell—aswellasIwilleverbe.Iamnotunderstood,Amory.Iknowthatcan’texpressittoyou,Amory,but—Iamnotunderstood."

           Amorywasquitemoved.Heputhisarmaroundhismother,rubbinghisheadgentlyagainsthershoulder.

           "PoorBeatrice—poorBeatrice."