‘O, shut up, will you?’ said Edward savagely; and once more we were silent, with only our thoughts for sorry company.
‘Let’s go off to the copse,’ I suggested timidly, feeling that something had to be done to relieve the tension, ‘and cut more new bows and arrows.’
‘She gave me a knife my last birthday,’ said Edward moodily, never budging. ‘It wasn’t much of a knife—but I wish I hadn’t lost it!’
‘When my legs used to ache,’ I said, ‘she sat up half the night, rubbing stuff on them. I forgot all about that till this morning.’
‘There’s the fly!’ cried Harold suddenly. ‘I can hear it scrunching on the gravel.’
Then for the first time we turned and stared each other in the face.
The fly and its contents had finally disappeared through the gate, the rumble of its wheels had died away. Yet no flag floated defiantly in the sun, no cannons proclaimed the passing of a dynasty. From out the frosted cake of our existence Fate had cut an irreplaceable segment: turn which way we would, the void was present. We sneaked off in different directions, mutually undesirous of company; and it seemed borne in upon me that I ought to go and dig my garden right over, from end to end. It didn’t actually want digging; on the other hand no amount of digging could affect it, for good or for evil; so I worked steadily, strenuously, under the hot sun, stifling thought in action. At the end of an hour or so, I was joined by Edward.
