"Oh, you want to smoke your pipe in peace, of course," she interrupted, laughing, and passing her arm through mine. "Well, I am not going to allow it. I want you—to tell me things."
So our little procession was re-formed. Mabane, and Arthur with his hands deep in his pockets and an angry frown upon his forehead, walked on ahead. Behind came Isobel and I—Isobel with her hands clasped behind her, her head a little thrown back, a faint, wistful smile lightening the unusual gravity of her face. I looked at her in wonder.
"Come," I said, "what are the things you want me to talk to you about, and why are you tired of talking nonsense with Arthur?"
She did not look at me, but the smile faded from her lips. Her eyes were still fixed steadily ahead.
"I believe you think, Arnold," she said quietly, "that I am still a baby!"
I saw her lips quiver for a moment, and my selfishness melted away. I thought only of her.
"No, I do not think that, Isobel," I said gently. "Only if I were you I would not be in too great a hurry to grow up. It is when one is young, after all, that one walks in the gardens of life. Afterwards—when one has passed through the portals—outside the roads are dusty, and the way a little wearisome. Stay in the gardens, Isobel, as long as you can. Believe me, that life outside has many disappointments and many sorrows. Your time will come soon enough."
She smiled at me a little enigmatically.
"And you?" she asked, "have you closed the gates of the garden behind you?"
"I am nearer forty than thirty," I answered. "I have grey hairs, and I am getting a little bald. I may still be of some use in the world, and there are very beautiful places where I may rest, and even find happiness. But they are not like the gardens of youth. There is no other place like them. All of us who have hurried so eagerly away, Isobel, look back sometimes—and long!"