‘And the crack is very stretchy’—she added,—‘luckily.’
Paul drew a long breath and stretched himself.
‘Well,’ he said, still a little breathless and dizzy, ‘such things were never done in my day.’
‘But this isn’t your day any more,’ explained Nixie, her blue eyes popping with laughter and mischief, ‘it’s your night. And, anyhow, as I told you, there’s no time here at all. There’s no hurry now.’
CHAPTER XV
The imagination is not a state; it is the human existence itself.—W. B.
Paul, looking round, felt utterly at peace with himself and the world; at rest, he felt. That was his first sensation in the mass. He recovered in a moment from his breathless entrance, and a subtle pleasure began to steal through his veins. It seemed as if every yearning he had ever known was being ministered to by competent unseen Presences; and, obviously, the children and the cats—Mrs. Tompkyns had somehow managed to join Smoke—felt likewise, for their countenances beamed and blinked supreme contentment.
‘Ah!’ observed Jonah, sitting contentedly on the grass beside him. ‘This is the place.’ He heaved a happy little sigh, as though the statement were incontrovertible.
‘It is,’ echoed Paul. And Nixie’s eyes shone like blue flowers in a field of spring.
‘The crack’s smaller than it used to be though,’ he heard her murmuring to herself. ‘Every year it’s harder to get through. I suppose something’s happening to the world—or to people; some change going on——’