“What has the girl got on?” my companion asked.
“A blue serge skirt and pink blouse.”
“I think it’s Millie,” she said. “What colour hair?”
“Very light,” I said.
“Yes, that’s Millie. She’s the head girl. She’s awfully decent.”
“There’s an old man tying up roses,” I said.
“Yes, that’s Peter. He’s the gardener. He’s hundreds of years old!”
“And here comes a dark girl in red, on crutches.”
“Yes,” she said; “that’s Beryl.”
And so we walked on, and in steering this little thing about I discovered that I was ten times more thoughtful already than I had any notion of, and also that the necessity of describing the surroundings to another makes them more interesting.