“No? Why not?”
“It ain’t good enough. Nothing’s good enough if you stop too long at it. Uncle’ll never be any different.”
“Will any of us ever be different?”
“I shall,” she said, and she gave a queer little defiant laugh and her stride lengthened so that she shot a pace or two ahead of him. She turned and laughed at him over her shoulder.
“Come along, slowcoach.”
He grunted and made an effort, but could not catch her. So they moved until they came to a little wood with a white gate in the hedges. Through this she went, he after her, and she flung herself down in the bracken, and lay staring up through the leaves of the trees. He stood looking down at her. It was some time before she broke the silence and said:
“Sit down and smell. Ain’t it good? . . . Do you think if you murdered me now they’d ever find me?”
“What a horrible idea?”
“I often dream I’ve committed a murder. They say it’s lucky. Do you believe in dreams?”