“We must get out,” he said. “There’s nothing for it but to get out, quick.”
She looked at him doubtfully across the table.
“But where?” she said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “We’ll just wander about for a bit.”
Again she looked at him quizzically.
“I should be perfectly happy at the Mill,” she said.
“It’s very near the old thing,” he said. “Let us wander a bit.”
His voice could be so soft and happy-go-lucky, it went through her veins like an exhilaration. Nevertheless she dreamed of a valley, and wild gardens, and peace. She had a desire too for splendour—an aristocratic extravagant splendour. Wandering seemed to her like restlessness, dissatisfaction.
“Where will you wander to?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I feel as if I would just meet you and we’d set off—just towards the distance.”