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           "Oh,Isupposeheavenwould,iftherewasone,"shesaidfinally,"asortofpaganheaven—yououghttobeamaterialist,"shecontinuedirrelevantly.

           "Why?"

           "BecauseyoulookagooddeallikethepicturesofRupertBrooke."

           TosomeextentAmorytriedtoplayRupertBrookeaslongasheknewEleanor.Whathesaid,hisattitudetowardlife,towardher,towardhimself,wereallreflexesofthedeadEnglishman’sliterarymoods.Oftenshesatinthegrass,alazywindplayingwithhershorthair,hervoicehuskyassheranupanddownthescalefromGrantchestertoWaikiki.TherewassomethingmostpassionateinEleanor’sreadingaloud.Theyseemednearer,notonlymentally,butphysically,whentheyread,thanwhenshewasinhisarms,andthiswasoften,fortheyfellhalfintolovealmostfromthefirst.YetwasAmorycapableoflovenow?Hecould,asalways,runthroughtheemotionsinahalfhour,butevenwhiletheyrevelledintheirimaginations,heknewthatneitherofthemcouldcareashehadcaredoncebefore—IsupposethatwaswhytheyturnedtoBrooke,andSwinburne,andShelley.Theirchancewastomakeeverythingfineandfinishedandrichandimaginative;theymustbendtinygoldententaclesfromhisimaginationtohers,thatwouldtaketheplaceofthegreat,deeplovethatwasneversonear,yetneversomuchofadream.