“John, the sun’s come out and the Abbey has gone all gold.”
“And it has caught the trees as well, perhaps? When the sun came out for a moment it used to be a great thing for me, and I have sat here entranced, but when you think that all this doesn’t bother itself about one at all, it is a trifle boring.”
“John, you are very like Father.”
“Am I? How?”
“I don’t know. You talk the same.”
“Do I? Oh, well. But I used to dream here so. Have you never dreamed, June—about things, I mean?”
“Yes, perhaps.”
“And what do you do all day? There must be time to dream.”
“Oh, there’s lots to do. But I do dream.”
“What about?”