CHAPTER IV

THE TAWNY SAND Hans, sitting by Klimov in the bumpy old car, thought, as the light left the last lingering fields: 'How like a dream this is! And all the best moments of life have been dreams.' That was it, then--never to force anything into too positive a shape, to avoid at all costs, if one wanted to remain happy, this modern passion for seizing something and looking at it in and out, up and down, as a small boy seizes his railway train or his birthday watch and investigates the works. The car was an open one, an…