She shrugged her shoulders, smiling at him. "Let's go," she said.
They walked down to Steyning by the steep path that drops over the hill and skirts the big bosom of the Down. Paul plucked sprays of leaves, laughed, swung his stick, sang. She laughed back at him. "Madcap," she said.
"Oh, I know. I'm mad. No, I'm not. But I have been mad, you know. But, I say, you must teach me more. We must talk about this. Will you?"
"Yes. But you don't need teaching, you know. You're a poet. You'll teach."
"I know what I am," he cried, stopping suddenly, "I know what I am!"
"What?" she queried, amused.
"I'm the blind beggar-man. 'One thing I know: once I was blind, but now I see.' Remember?"
She nodded at him, sensing something of the old evangelical years in his quotation.
"Oh, it's wonderful! Heavens, what a poem! No: I'll write a play about it. You see it, don't you? How was he made to see, eh, how?"
She laughed outright. "There you are! I don't know. How?"