SON OF THE WIND
chaos, without a thought of to-morrow. Half their joy had been in their freedom, their wildness, their detachment from the world. That institution by which the world is populated—he had never even considered it enough to scorn it. Of the tremors of the man who comes in all the circumstances of clothes-for-an-occasion, with a prearranged form of question, he knew nothing. He—the last of human creatures to think of himself as mated—felt the approach of an end to summer, an end to an idyl, a sharpening of its sweetness; and, like a wounding edge, the threat of separation.
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