She panted up anon, and dropped on the turf beside me. Neither had any desire for talk; the glow and the glory of existing on this perfect morning were satisfaction full and sufficient.
‘Where’s Harold?’ I asked presently.
‘Oh, he’s just playin’ muffin-man, as usual,’ said Charlotte with petulance. ‘Fancy wanting to be a muffin-man on a whole holiday!’
It was a strange craze, certainly; but Harold, who invented his own games and played them without assistance, always stuck staunchly to a new fad, till he had worn it quite out. Just at present he was a muffin-man, and day and night he went through passages and up and down staircases, ringing a noiseless bell and offering phantom muffins to invisible wayfarers. It sounds a poor sort of sport; and yet—to pass along busy streets of your own building, for ever ringing an imaginary bell and offering airy muffins of your own make to a bustling thronging crowd of your own creation—there were points about the game, it cannot be denied, though it seemed scarce in harmony with this radiant wind-swept morning!
‘And Edward, where is he?’ I questioned again.
‘He’s coming along by the road,’ said Charlotte. ‘He’ll be crouching in the ditch when we get there, and he’s going to be a grizzly bear and spring out on us, only you mustn’t say I told you, ’cos it’s to be a surprise.’
“‘WHERE’S HAROLD?’ I ASKED PRESENTLY. ‘OH,
HE’S JUST PLAYIN’ MUFFIN-MAN AS USUAL.’”
‘All right,’ I said magnanimously. ‘Come on and let’s be surprised.’ But I could not help feeling that on this day of days even a grizzly felt misplaced and common.