We walked into the brisk, vibrating sunshine of a glorious Christmas
morning. He had taken my arm, and was chatting gayly on everything from
"cabbages to kings." Sometimes his nostrils dilated, and he would look
up as if he were actually drinking in the ozone of the air; and he
seemed younger than ever, with a joyousness born of sheer intoxication
with life. We walked for a mile, and all the time his mood was as happy
and stimulating as the sunshine sparkling in the December air.
Turning down a street, we passed a church from which the worshipers
were emerging, and a mother with two sons on the brink of manhood held
our attention for a moment. The lads had a gentleness of feature, an
unconscious grace that sometimes is the attribute of adolescence, and
their mother walked between them, proudly--they were her masterpieces.
For some time Norman chatted amiably, but I could see that a pensive
shadow was steadily creeping over the brilliancy of his spirits.
"They tell me," he said in subdued tones, breaking suddenly from the
topic in hand, "that both my parents hoped for a girl when I was born.
And sometimes I have thought that there is a little of the feminine in
my nature. I love the pretty things of life, and there are times when I
have an unmistakable sense of intuition."