It is not laisser aller.  It is life-rootedness.  It is being by oneself, life-living, like the much-mooted lily.  One toils, one spins, one strives:  just as the lily does.  But like her, taking one’s own life-way amidst everything, and taking one’s own life-way alone.  Love too.  But there also, taking one’s way alone, happily alone in all the wonders of communion, swept up on the winds, but never swept away from one’s very self.  Two eagles in mid-air, maybe, like Whitman’s Dalliance of Eagles.  Two eagles in mid-air, grappling, whirling, coming to their intensification of love-oneness there in mid-air.  In mid-air the love consummation.  But all the time each lifted on its own wings:  each bearing itself up on its own wings at every moment of the mid-air love consummation.  That is the splendid love-way.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The party was festive at dinner-time, the women in their finest dresses, new flowers on the table, the best wine going.  It was Sunday evening.  Aaron too was dressed—­and Lady Franks, in black lace and pearls, was almost gay.  There were quails for dinner.  The Colonel was quite happy.  An air of conviviality gathered round the table during the course of the meal.

“I hope,” said Aaron, “that we shall have some music tonight.”

“I want so much to hear your flute,” said his hostess.

“And I your piano,” he said.

“I am very weak—­very out of practise.  I tremble at the thought of playing before a musician.  But you must not be too critical.”

“Oh,” said Aaron, “I am not a man to be afraid of.”

“Well, we will see,” said Lady Franks.  “But I am afraid of music itself.”

“Yes,” said Aaron.  “I think it is risky.”

“Risky!  I don’t see that!  Music risky?  Bach?  Beethoven!  No, I don’t agree.  On the contrary, I think it is most elevating—­most morally inspiring.  No, I tremble before it because it is so wonderful and elevating.”

“I often find it makes me feel diabolical,” said he.

“That is your misfortune, I am sure,” said Lady Franks.  “Please do take another—­but perhaps you don’t like mushrooms?”

Aaron quite liked mushrooms, and helped himself to the entree.

“But perhaps,” said she, “you are too modern.  You don’t care for Bach or Beethoven or Chopin—­dear Chopin.”

“I find them all quite as modern as I am.”

“Is that so!  Yes.  For myself I am quite old-fashioned—­though I can appreciate Strauss and Stravinsky as well, some things.  But my old things—­ah, I don’t think the moderns are so fine.  They are not so deep.  They haven’t fathomed life so deeply.”  Lady Franks sighed faintly.

“They don’t care for depths,” said Aaron.

“No, they haven’t the capacity.  But I like big, deep music.  Oh, I love orchestra.  But my instrument is the piano.  I like the great masters, Bach, Beethoven.  They have such faith.  You were talking of faith—­believing that things would work out well for you in the end.  Beethoven inspires that in me, too.”