“Where are we going, grandfather?”
I inclined to the direction of the town, where we should find attractions of all sorts, shops, bazars, show-windows, faces, noise and movement.
At the outset we were stopped by the closed gate, the key of which we had forgotten to bring.
“Run and get it, child. But why the devil should they barricade the gate?”
It was one of Aunt Deen’s thousand precautions; the previous evening, or the one before, she had seen from afar a gipsy waggon, and since then she had been keeping prudent guard over the household. I ran, somewhat scandalised by grandfather’s remark. Wasn’t it necessary to guard the house against enemies? A kingdom has frontiers which must be respected; was it not enough that shadows crossed them every evening in spite of gates and bolts?
We are off at last, and grandfather at once turns his back upon the town:
“Child, I don’t like towns.”
Good-bye to shops and people! We had not walked ten minutes when he took it into his head to leave the highroad, along which we were walking at our ease, quite properly, without hurry, and took a footpath which crossed the fields haphazard.
“You’re taking the wrong road, grandfather.”
“Not at all. Child, I detest roads!”