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"It's seemed to me that,
it must have been a happy summer for you--a real 'summer of roses and
wine'--without the wine, perhaps. 'Gather ye roses while ye may'--or
was it primroses? Time does really fly, or perhaps it's more like the
sky--and smoke--"
George was puzzled. "What do you mean: time being like the sky and
smoke?"
"I mean the things that we have and that we think are so solid--
they're like smoke, and time is like the sky that the smoke disappears
into. You know how wreath of smoke goes up from a chimney, and seems
all thick and black and busy against the sky, as if it were going to
do such important things and last forever, and you see it getting
thinner and thinner--and then, in such a little while, it isn't there
at all; nothing is left but the sky, and the sky keeps on being just
the same forever."
"It strikes me you're getting mixed up," said George cheerfully. "I
don't see much resemblance between time and the sky, or between things
and smoke-wreaths; but I do see one reason you like 'Lucy Morgan so
much.


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