4.

       The Transfiguration

       Table of Contents

      The car slid smoothly along a straight white road that stretched ahead into the darkness like an earth-bound Milky Way. In the dim distance before them, red as Antares, glowed the tail-light of some automobile; except for this lone evidence of humanity, reflected Pat, they might have been flashing through the cosmic depths of interstellar space, instead of following a highway in the very shadow of Chicago. The colossal city of the lake-shore was invisible behind them, and the clustering suburbs with it.

      "Queer, isn't it?" said Pat, after a silence, "how contented we can be with none of the purchased amusement people crave—shows, movies, dancing, and all that."

      "It doesn't seem queer to me," answered Nick. "Not when I look at you here beside me."

      "Nice of you!" retorted Pat. "But it's never happened to me before." She paused, then continued, "How do you like the Doctor?"

      "How does he like me? That's considerably more to the point, isn't it?"

      "He thinks you're nice, but—let's see—introverted, repressed, and ill-adjusted to your environment. I think those were the points."

      "Well, I liked him, in spite of your manoeuvers, and in spite of his being a doctor."

      "What's wrong with being a doctor?"

      "Did you ever read 'Tristram Shandy'?" was Nick's irrelevant response.

      "No, but I read the newspapers!"

      "What's the connection, Pat?"

      "Just as much connection as there is between the evils of being a doctor and reading 'Tristram Shandy'. I know that much about the book, at least."

      "You're nearly right," laughed Nick. "I was just referring to one of Tristram's remarks on doctors and lawyers. It fits my attitude."

      "What's the remark?"

      "Well, he had the choice of professions, and it occurred to him that medicine and law were the vulture professions, since lawyers live by men's quarrels and doctors by men's misfortunes. So—he became a writer."

      "And what do writers live by?" queried Pat mischievously. "By men's stupidity!"

      "You're precious, Pat!" Nick chuckled delightedly. "If I'd created you to order, I couldn't have planned you more to taste—pepper, tabasco sauce, vinegar, spice, and honey!"

      "And to be taken with a grain of salt," retorted the girl, puckering her piquant, impish features. She edged closer to him, locking her arm through his where it rested on the steering wheel.

      "Nick," she said, her tones suddenly gentle, "I think I'm pretty crazy about you. Heaven knows why I should be, but it's a fact."

      "Pat, dear!"

      "I'm crazy about you in this meek, sensitive pose of yours, and I'm fascinated by those masterful moments you flash occasionally. Really, Nick, I almost wish you flamed out oftener."

      "Don't!" he said sharply.

      "Why not?"

      "Let's not talk about me, Pat. It—embarrasses me."

      "All right, Mr. Modesty! Let's talk about me, then. I'll promise we won't succeed in embarrassing me."

      "And it's quite the most interesting subject in the world, Pat."

      "Well, then?"

      "What?"

      "Why don't you start talking? The topic is all attention."

      He chuckled. "How many men have told you you were beautiful, Pat?"

      "I never kept account."

      "And in many different ways?"

      "Why? Have you, perchance, discovered a new way, Nick?"

      "Not at all. The oldest way of any, the way of Sappho and Pindar."

      "O-ooh!" She clapped her hands in mock delight. "Poetry!"

      "The only medium that could possibly express how lovely you are," said Nick.

      "Nicholas, have you gone and composed a poem to me?"

      "Composed? No. It isn't necessary, with you here beside me."

      "What's that? Some very subtle compliment?"

      "Not subtle, Pat. You're the poem yourself; all I need do is look at you, listen to you, and translate."

      "Neat!" applauded the girl. "Do I hear the translation?"

      "You certainly do." He turned his odd amber-green eyes on her, then bent forward to the road. He began to speak in a low voice.

      "In no far country's silent ways

       Shall I forget one little thing—

       The soft intentness of your gaze,

       The sweetness of your murmuring

       Your generously tender praise,

       The words just hinted by a breath—

       In no far country's silent way,

       Unless that country's name be Death—"

      He paused abruptly, and drove silently onward.

      "Oh," breathed Pat. "Why don't you go on, Nick? Please."

      "No. It isn't the mood for this night, Dear. Not this night, alone with you."

      "What is, then?"

      "Nothing sentimental. Something lighter, something—oh, Elizabethan. That's it."

      "And what's stopping you?"

      "Lack of an available idea. Or—wait. Listen a moment." He began, this time in a tone of banter.

      "When mornings, you attire yourself

       For riding in the city,

       You're such a lovely little elf,

       Extravagantly pretty!

       And when at noon you deign to wear