Page:Walpole--portrait of man with red hair.djvu/296

 older than we are. You're not. Do you promise to be the friend of both of us always?"

"Yes," he said. Something mockingly repeated in his brain, "It is a far far better thing that I do"

He burst out laughing. The macaw awoke, put up his head and screamed.

"You are both younger by centuries than I," he said. "I was born old. I was born with the Old Man of Europe singing in my ears. I was born to the inheritance of borrowed culture. The gifts that the fairies gave me at my cradle were Michael Angelo's 'David,' Rembrandt's 'Gold-weigher's Field,' the 'Temples at Pæstum,' the Da Vinci 'Last Supper,' the Breughels at Vienna, the view of the Jungfrau from Mürren, the Grand Canal at dawn, Hogarth's prints, and the Quintet of the Meistersinger. Yes, the gifts were piled up all right. But just as they were all showered upon me in stepped the Wicked Fairy and said that I should have them all—on condition that I didn't touch! Never touch—never. At least I've known that they were there, at least I've bent the knee, but—until last night—until last night...."

He suddenly took Hesther's face between his two hands, kissed her on the forehead, on the eyes, on the mouth:

"I don't know what's coming in a quarter of an hour. I don't like to think. To tell you the truth I'm in the devil of a funk. But I love you, I love