‘It’s the very devil.’
‘I don’t feel a bit like myself, do you? There’s some sort of queerness about,—magic. Or is it just being young, do you think?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Don’t let’s ever be old. Could you bear it?’
‘I shouldn’t like it.’
‘Well wish that. Wish never to be old.’
Silence.
‘No,’ he said at last. He held her hand still and bent his head, twisting his bit of cherry. His voice came huskily: ‘I’ve wished something else.’
Gently she drew her hand away. She must run away quickly from whatever was happening: no emotional conflict with Martin must thrust across and confuse the path where all was prepared for one alone.
‘Don’t go in,’ implored Martin. ‘Can’t we walk?’