noons
Neale had pushed his chair back from the table , lighted his pipe , and sat meditating . Presently he put out his hand and laid it on Marise 's , who had turned to look down the sun-flooded valley . It was high-noon , dreamy , entranced , all the world golden with the magnificent weather as a holly-hock is golden with pollen . From the brook came the living voice of the water , with the special note of brave clarity it always had for brilliant noons . It seemed to Marise that she too was all gold-powdered with the magnificence of life , that in her heart there sang a clear living voice that did not fear high-noons . October . Would Vincent come back at all ?