“Just think,” gently rocking the elephant cradles, “if I admitted Stuart to my passion for curly-haired small infants; told him that carols sung on frosty nights bring a lump to my throat; or that organ music makes me want to be good. Yes, it does, Merle—honest injun! And I like stroking somebody’s hair in the firelight, and simply ache at times for the strong shoulder to lean on——”
“Try Stuart’s,” suggested Merle unkindly. And Peter shuddered.
“Shoulders! he’s got ridges; they’d cut like a knife; and what isn’t ridge is knobs. No, I meant the sort of shoulder, with that traditional Harris-tweed scent ‘that ever afterwards brought his image with such cruel distinctness before her mental vision.’ You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course I do; Pour qui prenez-vous moi? But your marshes are specially bad. Tell me some more.”
“Call of Spring,” continued Peter, just letting the murmured words drop from between her lips; “and the scent of jasmine on a hot night.”
“Tiger again?”
“Um.”
Merle had an inspiration: “What about letting that tiger graze on the marshes?”
“Bad for it to graze anywhere,” said Peter grimly. “Then there’s the Marsh of ‘do-you-remember’ and ‘this-time-a-year-ago,’ deep slushy ones, both of them; particular favourites of mine. And the clash of bells on New Year’s Eve awakens feelings unutterable within me. So do soldiers marching past; and a cheering crowd. I’m attached to the house in which I was born. I keep letters. I don’t mind Tennyson half as much as I pretend. And when I read about lonely children, I cry. And then I can cry at seeing myself cry—it’s a most pathetic sight!”
“Is all that genuine?” real concern now in her friend’s voice.