Wistful and wondering, she would sit in summer weather by the high fender in the lodge, looking up at the sky through the barred window, until, when she turned her eyes away, bars of light would arise between her and her friend, and she would see him through a grating, too.
‘Thinking of the fields,’ the turnkey said once, after watching her, ‘ain’t you?’
‘Where are they?’ she inquired.
‘Why, they’re—over there, my dear,’ said the turnkey, with a vague flourish of his key. ‘Just about there.’
‘Does anybody open them, and shut them? Are they locked?’
The turnkey was discomfited. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Not in general.’
‘Are they very pretty, Bob?’ She called him Bob, by his own particular request and instruction.
‘Lovely. Full of flowers. There’s buttercups, and there’s daisies, and there’s’—the turnkey hesitated, being short of floral nomenclature—‘there’s dandelions, and all manner of games.’
‘Is it very pleasant to be there, Bob?’
‘Prime,’ said the turnkey.