‘Isn’t it time now to stop writing all those Reports, and to take off your dressing-up things?’ she asked with decision.
Paul stopped abruptly and tried to disengage his hand, but she held him so tightly that he could not escape without violence.
‘What dressing-up things are you talking about?’ he asked, forcing a laugh which, he admitted himself, sounded quite absurd.
‘All this pretending that you’re so old, and don’t know about things—I mean real things—our things.’
He searched as in a fever for the right words—words that should be true and wise, and safe—but before he could pick them out of the torrent of sentences that streamed through his mind, she had gone on again. She spoke calmly, but very gravely.
‘We are so tired of helping to pretend with you; and we’ve been waiting patiently so long. Even Toby knows it’s only ’sguise you put on to tease us.’
‘Even Toby?’ he repeated foolishly, avoiding her brilliant eyes.
‘And it really isn’t quite fair, you know. There are so very few that care—and understand—’
There came a little quaver in her voice. She hardly came up to his shoulder. He felt as though a whole bathful of happiness had suddenly been upset inside him, and was running about deliciously through his whole being—as though he wanted to run and dance and sing. It was like the reaction after tight boots—collars—or tight armour—and the blood was beginning to flow again mightily. Nothing could stop it. Some keystone in the fabric of his being dropped or shifted. His whole inner world fell into a new pattern. Resistance was no longer possible or desirable. He had done his best. Now he would give in and enjoy himself at last.
‘But, my dear child—my dear little Nixie—’