The end of the book had still to shape itself from bewilderment. The girl had not yet moved into her place in the scheme—the girl of the February wood. Time still for these miracles to happen, when time itself had been transformed to a miracle by the mere fact of writing a book. Gareth rose, and sauntered away from the harbour, up the hill, and back to Rapparee House. It was after midday, and the wind had dropped to a blue shimmer of relentless heat. He remembered there was to be a picnic that afternoon for the purpose of "shaking us all together," as Mrs. Worley had announced at breakfast. Gareth did not feel violently inclined for the shaking process—but he was resigned.
After all, the gods had given him an attic—and a harbour.
"I dote on the All Fresco!" explained Mrs. Worley, as heavily laden with picnic paraphernalia, the Rapparee House party plodded solemnly up the baked sea-road, to some wood about two miles distant. Two and two they went—Kathleen and Jim Collins leading; then Lulu and young Teddy; Fred Worley and old Mrs. Kirby; Napier Kirby and Miss Frazer; Gareth and Mrs. Worley. Grace Kirby had placed her beautiful auburn head among the green silk hammock-cushions in the garden, and with her most charming smile had announced her intention of remaining where she was. "We've had so many picnics lately, Trixie dear."
"Grace," ejaculated her hostess with portentous meaning: "I quite understand.... I suppose you will join us later?"
"I don't suppose so," assented Grace sweetly, closing her eyes.
The sorrowful procession filed past her. It was so easy in heat like this, to stop—to flop—exactly where one happened to be standing; so very difficult to move on to another spot two miles distant. But Trixie, blown out tightly with exuberance and mystery, was a tremendous driving-force; and the nine were too limp for resistance.
"Mr. Temple——"
Gareth started from reverie and looked worried. Mrs. Worley loomed insistently between him and his frailer dreams; sprawled with grotesque Rabelaisian effect across the blank pages, dimly glamorous, of the sacred book itself—he had an awful fear that she would eventually dig herself in; her ponderous accentuation of the utterly trivial, her fits of hale vulgarity, her unusual appearance—little round eyes starting with surprise, little round hats with gaily plumaged birds a-waggle—the whole personality as it bulged from its unmelting encumbrances of flesh, gripped him with the nightmare obsession that here was material clamouring for immortalization.... And he did not at all want to immortalize Trixie....
"Mr. Temple, tell me all about publishers."