eobservedhimselfandshrugged.Hehadgrowncautiousandtame;hewasnolongeraneagleorahare;hehadbeeadomestiimal.Whenheroamedaboutnow,hewaslookingfortheperfumeofthepast,formemoriesofhisformeradveherthanfornewfreedom.Likeadog,helookedlonginglyanddistrustfullyforthelostst.Andafterhehadbeenawayforadayortwo,loafedabitandcaroused,somethingdrewhimirresistiblyback.Hehadabadsce.Hefeltthisworkshopwaitingforhim,feltresponsibleforthealtarhehadbegun,forthepreparedwood,forhisassistantErich.Hewasnolongerfree,nolongeryoung.Hemadeafirmresolution:aftertheLydia-Marywasfinished,hewaogoonatripandtrywanderingoncemore.Itwasnotgoodtoliveinacloisterforsolong,withmenonly.Itmightbegoodformonks,butnotforhim.Onecouldspeakintelligentlywithmen,andtheyuoodanartistswork,butalltherest—chatting,tenderness,games,love,pleasurewithoutthought—didnotflourishamongmen,forthatoneneededwomen,wandering,freedom,andevernewimpressions.Everythingaroundhimwasalittlegrayandserioushere,alittleheavyandmanly,andhehadbeeihadcreptintohisblood.Thethoughtofatripsoledhim.Hekepttohisworkceouslyiobefreesooner.AndasLydiasfiguregraduallycametowardhimoutofthewood,ashedrapedthestrictfoldsofherdressoverherknees,adeep,painfuljoyovertookhim,anostalgicfallingihtheimage,withthebeautifulshygirlfigure,withhismemoryofthattime,withhisfirstlove,hisfirsttravels,hisyouth.Reverentlyheworkedatthedelicateimage,feltitohthebestwithinhim,withhisyouth,withhismosttendermemories.Itwasajoytoformherinedneck,herfriendly-sadmouth,hereleganthands,thelongfihebeautifullyarche