“No?” I said.
He did not speak.
“You should make things happen,” said I.
“Don’t make me feel a worse fool, Cyril,” he replied despairingly.
Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs among the blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist crept along the ground.
“But, for all that, Cyril,” he said, “to have her laugh at you across the table; to hear her sing as she moved about, before you are washed at night, when the fire’s warm, and you’re tired; to have her sit by you on the hearth seat, close and soft. . . .”
“In Spain,” I said. “In Spain.”
He took no notice, but turned suddenly, laughing.
“Do you know, when I was stooking up, lifting the sheaves, it felt like having your arm round a girl. It was quite a sudden sensation.”
“You’d better take care,” said I, “you’ll mesh yourself in the silk of dreams, and then——”