“I know,” said Georgie.
“That was a Clouded Yellow,” as a butterfly flitted past.
“I know.”
“They’ve got sort of scent bags on their wings.”
“I know.”
“What sort of a bird is that flying over there?” challenged William.
“Well, what sort is it?”
“A starling.”
“I knew it was.”
William then tired of the conversation and began to while away the tedium of the journey as best he could by more active measures. Georgie, however, refused to take part in them. Georgie refused to jump over the ditch with William because he said he might fall in. He refused to walk on the fence with William because he said that he might fall off. He refused to swing on the gate with William because he said it might dirty his suit. He refused to climb a tree for the same reason. He refused to race William to the end of the road because, he said, it was rough. William was only deterred by his position as host and by Georgie’s protective one year’s minority from forcibly making Georgie acquainted with the contents of the ditch as the inner prompting of his heart bade him to. Instead he leapt to and fro across the ditch (falling in only twice), swung on the gate, walked on the fence (over-balancing once) and trailed his toes in the dust in solitary glory, ignoring his companion entirely.