‘Well, come on,’ said Roddy.
They fled from it.
They fled from it, but ah!—it pursued them. From miles away it wailed to Judith in a high thin squeak: ‘Save me! Save me!’ They made excuses to each other for spoiling the paper chase, and going back the same way. Their feet were compelled, driven.
The pond lay fair and flawless in the evening light. The umbrella was drowned.
Roddy stood at the edge and bit his lip. He said:
‘Well, I almost wish I hadn’t thrown the poor old chap away.’
She nodded. She could not speak.
The place was haunted for ever.
But what remained more deeply in her memory was the bond with Roddy, the sharing of an emotion, the secret sympathy. Avidly she seized upon it, and with it nourished her immoderate ambitions. One day they would all like her better than anyone else: even Roddy would tell her every thing. Their lives, instead of being always remote and mysterious would revolve intimately round her. She would know all, all about them.
From that far off unsubstantial time Roddy’s face was the last, the clearest, the strangest to float up.