“Yes, that’s his home, near Lee on the Solent.”
“But surely he is quite an infant.”
“I don’t know what you mean by an infant, Aunt Anne. He is two years older than me, and he simply loves poetry.”
“And is he as nice as Mr. Wilson?”
“Very, very nice.”
Further lights were bursting in. The illumination momentarily staggered me.
“H’m. Dulcie, you will now attend to what I tell you.”
“Yes, yes, Aunt Anne. I always do.”
“Now, mind you don’t make eyes at Mr. Wilson, who is Joan’s friend. That is what horrid little cats of girls do, not what I expect of you. Chickens draw people together in a way, ahem! you don’t understand, but—you will later on.”
“Like poetry does?” Dulcie hazarded.