“There must be no nonsense about that,” said Aunt Moira. “And for Heaven’s sake don’t begin to write poetry until you have learnt how to write prose!”
The tea things were removed, and they sat on in silence. Now Aunt Moira’s silence was a formidable weapon, but to-day it was as though Ivor did not notice it, his eyes were so intent on the bright prospect of Kensington Gardens. Through a corner window could be seen a part of Kensington Palace, bathed in the rich shadow of the evening sun.
“Ivor!” she suddenly called.
The boy jerked his eyes away from that enthralling moon outside the windows—it is always outside the windows, that eternal and enthralling moon, or just behind the other person’s right shoulder. He smiled shadowily at her....
“I was just thinking,” he said.
“There’s so much to do, to think about, Aunt Moira,” he said. “And one doesn’t know where to begin!”
“That,” said Aunt Moira, “is just what you have to think out. I can’t help you.” Which, of course, she at once proceeded to do. “I suppose you are being eaten up with the idea, that you must see things, do things, live things. When I was young a young man was not happy until he had travelled—but it’s not enough for you to travel geographically. You want to travel emotionally. You are not childish enough....”
“It’s a twilight age,” said Aunt Moira.
“These two were rapid falcons in a snare,
Condemned to do the flitting of the bat.”
“Meredith wrote that,” she explained—and somehow made Meredith very mysterious.