“Shan’t I put my new clothes on?”
“No—you want to leave your neck showing.”
He put his hand to his throat, and said naïvely:
“Do I?”—and it amused him.
Then he lay looking dreamily up into the tree. I left him, and went wandering round the fields finding flowers and bird’s nests.
When I came back, it was nearly four o’clock. He stood up and stretched himself. He pulled out his watch.
“Good Lord,” he drawled, “I’ve lain there thinking all afternoon. I didn’t know I could do such a thing. Where have you been? It’s with being all upset you see. You left the violets—here, take them, will you; and tell her: I’ll come when it’s getting dark. I feel like somebody else—or else really like myself. I hope I shan’t wake up to the other things—you know, like I am always—before them.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know—only I feel as if I could talk straight off without arranging—like birds, without knowing what note is coming next.”
When I was going he said: