“About tea-time. You were all out on the river, so we played Indians.”
“Daisy said you played better than anybody she knew,” said Lady Rye. “I wish you’d teach me. They don’t think I play at all well.”
Hugh was combing bits of things out of his hair.
“No, I expect you are not quite serious enough,” he said. “You probably don’t concentrate your mind on the fact that you are an Indian and that this is an American desert. Heavens, I shall never get rid of this hay; I wish it wasn’t so prickly!”
“One has to suffer to be absurd,” said she.
“Oh, but surely it isn’t absurd to play Indians!” said Hugh. “Anyhow, it isn’t more absurd than it is for all us grown-up people to dress up every evening and go to parties. That is just as absurd as children’s dressing-up. In fact, they are more sensible; they dress up and are what they dress up as. We dress up, and behave exactly as usual.”
Lady Rye considered this.
“Why do you go to parties, then, if it’s absurd?” she asked.
“Why? Because it’s such fun. I play wild Indians with Daisy and Jim for the same reason. But in both cases it’s playing. If you come to think of it, it is ridiculous for some distinguished statesman or general to put on stars and ribands when he goes to see his friends. It’s dressing-up. So why not say so?”
“Well, it’s time for us to go and dress up. Oh, isn’t it nice just for a day or two to have a pause? There’s no one here but Edith and Toby and you, and I shall make no efforts, but only go out in a punt and fill my pond.”