The
return to nature has always been the dream of the conventionalized
soul, while the simple Arcadian is forever longing for the
maddening honey of sophistication.
Innate jealousies strike together like flint and steel dashing off
sparks by which nearly everything that life can warm its core
withal is kindled and kept burning. What I envy in my friend I
store for my best use. I thrust and parry, not to kill, but to
learn my adversary's superior feints and guards. And this hint of
sword play leads back to what so greatly surprised and puzzled
Beverley one day when he chanced to be examining the pair of
colechemardes on the wall.
He took one down, and handling it with the indescribable facility
possible to none save a practical swordsman, remarked:
"There's a world of fascination in these things; I like nothing
better than a bout at fencing. Does your father practice the art?"
"I have no father, no mother," she quickly said; "but good Papa
Roussillon does like a little exercise with the colechemarde."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it, I shall ask to teach him a trick or
two," Beverley responded in the lightest mood. "When will he
return from the woods?"
"I can't tell you; he's very irregular in such matters," she said.
Then, with a smile half banter and half challenge, she added; "if
you are really dying for some exercise, you shall not have to wait
for him to come home, I assure you, Monsieur Beverley.
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