“Indeed, and what is that?” inquired Hertha.
“Oh,” said Winifred, “it just struck me, seeing this nice weather, how delightful, how much more delightful, it would have been to have a week’s holiday in London with you. How many places we could have gone to see; what long charming mornings we could have spent, reading and talking, at the British Museum, for instance! Whereas—oh dear, I can scarcely hope to have you much to myself down at White Turrets.”
“But it is the country that makes all the difference in the world,” said Hertha. “Even if I had not fixed to go, I don’t think anything would have kept me in London to-day. Everything, every leaf, every bird’s twitter, every breath of air, seems to be calling us out of the dust and glare of the weary streets.”
“I suppose it’s all a question of novelty,” said Winifred. “You see spring in the country is such an old experience to me. There’s nothing new in it.”
“Nothing new!” repeated Hertha, with a touch of scorn. “You don’t suppose I have always lived in a town, do you? But as for ‘nothing new’ in the spring—why it is always new. Ever-returning youth is its very essence. You cannot know anything of the true feeling of spring to speak so.”
“Perhaps not,” said Winifred, and for her the tone was very humble. “I am not at all poetical: I have told you so.”
This softened Hertha, to whose nature the position of antagonism was never congenial.
“And I, perhaps, am foolishly enthusiastic in some ways,” she said. “I feel so exuberant this morning.”
“I am so glad,” said Winifred fervently.
Then it proved to be time to take their tickets.