“Do you mind resting a bit, first?”
Her subdued voice called for a scrutinising glance. Then he dropped his spade and flung himself on the grass by her side. A little wind swept up the downland to them, making the brown benets nod in a friendly fashion. The purple scabious, too, nodded cheerfully. Patricia picked one and began stroking it with her fingers. Christopher lay on his back and whistled again softly, watching a lark, as he had watched one five years ago, when a small boy, by the side of the Great Road.
“Christopher, how did you do it?” demanded Patricia abruptly.
“Do what?”
“Stop me.”
“I didn’t. You stopped yourself.”
“Then you ought to have. You see you can, if you only will think.”
“I can’t think.”
“But you did,” he insisted, with some reason.