"On the contrary, they grow old in our service."
"I can believe you," said I heartily. "I myself have aged considerably since we left Highlands."
By this time we had flung through and out of the beechwood, and the car was storming past stretches of gleaming bracken, all red and gold and stuck with spreading oak trees that stood sometimes alone, sometimes in groups of two or three together, and made you think of staring cattle standing knee-deep in a golden flood.
The car tore on.
"We're coming to where I used to gather the mushrooms," my companion announced.
"Barefoot?"
"Sometimes."
"Because of the dew?"
She nodded.
I sighed. Then—