“Ah, by the way, Golding,” he would say, “I’m thinking we might have a bed of cosmos in the southern corner of the Tangle Garden.”
It would do as well as any other remark for a beginning, and he would like a bed of cosmos. He could picture Golding’s stare of dignified amazement.
“Are you giving orders?” he could imagine his querying with dry sarcasm.
“If you don’t mind,” Antony heard himself answering. “Though if you have any objection to the cosmos—” And he would pause.
Golding would naturally think that he had taken leave of his senses.
“Under the impression you’re master here, perhaps?” Golding might say. Anyhow those were the words Antony put into his mouth.
“I just happen to have that notion,” Antony would reply pleasantly.
“Since when?” Golding ought to ask.
“The notion,” Antony would reply slowly, “has been more or less in my mind since a year ago last March. I am not sure whether the fact dated from that month, or came into actuality this morning.”
There his imagination would fail him. There would be an interim. Then the scene would conclude by their having a drink together, Golding looking at Antony over his glass to utter at slow intervals.