But on the way home Elizabeth brought up Captain Holiday again.
"Joan," she began, "what do you think of that
CHAPTER VII
AFTER-EFFECTS
Rosalind: "Oh, Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!"
Celia: "I care not for my spirits, if my legs were not so weary."
—SHAKESPEARE.
Severely I looked at my chum.
She and I were walking down the road between the flowering hedges back to camp behind Vic, Sybil, and Curley.
Now the other two pupils—who had wound up their day's work by milking, which we had been sent to watch—had knocked off obviously as fresh as paint. Elizabeth, too, made no complaint of feeling tired after her day's stone-picking. She strode along manfully, and I thought that the rather wooden way she moved was just because of the clumsy land-boots.
So that I vowed to myself that I'd never let her know what I'd begun to feel, after the midday rest, and in every muscle, namely, the relentless strain of unusual physical exertion.
Ah! How it had got me!