‘The grass was soft under your feet,’ Graham whispered dreamily, ‘and there was the humming of bees——’
‘Where?—Where do you mean?’
‘And you played on the flute of Pan; and you bathed in the streams.... Do you remember?’
‘It was there that we first met?’
‘It was there that we ran in the sunlight over the green grass.’
‘It was there that we lay in the shadow of the trees.’
‘The deep sea: the dark sky: the sunshine: the waving branches: the garden:—it is just as if I could see the reflection of them all in your eyes.... Do you remember?’
Brocklehurst shook his head again. ‘Only when you tell me,’—he laughed somewhat ruefully. ‘After all, it is your garden, you know. I can’t get there by myself.’
‘If we really could get there!’
‘Oh, well, I’ll come with you any time if you’ll show me the way.’