In the midst of some murmurous stanza I would suddenly
stop, only to see her start and look at me as though I had committed a
sacrilege, in that I had spoiled some dream of hers. Then again I
myself would become lost in dreams, to be aroused by a soft voice
saying: "Well, why do you not go on?" Two people of the opposite sexes
reading poetry in the woods is a solemn matter. This is not
appreciated at the time, however. It comes back afterward.
In all the week I had learned nothing except that Gretchen was not what
she pretended to be. But I feared to ask questions. They might have
spoiled all. And the life was so new to me, so quiet and peaceful,
with the glamour of romance over it all, that I believe I could have
stayed on forever. And somehow Phyllis was fading away, slowly but
surely. The regret with which I had heretofore looked upon her
portrait was lessening each day; from active to passive. And yet, was
it because Gretchen was Phyllis in the ideal? Was I falling in love
with Gretchen because she was Gretchen, or was my love for Phyllis
simply renewing itself in Gretchen? Was that the reason why the
portrait of Phyllis grew less holding and interesting to me? It was a
complex situation; one I frowned over when alone.
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