“Not like Frederic.”
Out of the bank near them scuttled a vole, and along and into a hole under the roots of a willow. Annette watched him eagerly, and then returned to Serge, and said:
“Don’t let’s talk about Frederic. I am so happy.”
Serge began to sing. He had very fine deep notes, but his voice failed him in the upper register, and whenever it cracked he laughed, and when he laughed Annette had to join in. He could never remember any song through to the end, and he invented the most absurd words. Then over a long stretch, as he rowed, he sang a melancholy canoe-song in a minor key that he had heard on the Zambesi. He sang it over and over again.
“I like that,” said Annette. “Do you know, often when I’m in the kitchen I think I’m in a boat sailing away and away. It’s like dreaming, only it goes on and on . . .”
“That’s love.”
“Is it? . . . That’s nonsense. I’m not in love.”
“Not in love, my dear. But it’s love all the same! Your little soul growing and expanding, trying to find an outlet, a channel that will lead it to warmth and the sun . . .”
“You make me feel unhappy when you talk like that.”
“You’re wiser than I am, Annette. You accept things where I think about them.”