‘Yes. Balliol. I go up next year.’ He was being brief and modest, actually blushing. But Balliol meant nothing to her: she was thinking of his great age.
‘You must be eighteen.’
‘Yes.’
‘D’you know, I remember all your birthdays.’
As she said it she almost cried again, it seemed such a confession of long-cherished vain hope and love. He stared at her, ready to be amused, and then, seeing her face, looked away suddenly, as if he half-understood and were astonished, embarrassed, touched.
‘Oh, look at those two,’ he said quickly.
Charlie had taken off his coat, and they were holding it up as a sail. With a pang of dismay Judith realized for the first time the ominous strength of the wind. It filled the coat full, and Mariella and Charlie, bearing it high in front of them, went sailing straight across the pond. They could not stop. They shrieked in laughter and agony and went ever faster. They were borne to the pond’s edge, stubbed their skates and fell violently in a heap on the grass.
Charlie lay on his back and moaned.
‘I’ve got a pain. I’ve got a pain. Oh, Mariella! Oh, God! Oh, all you people! The anguish, the sensation!—like the Scenic Railway—transports of horror and bliss. I thought: Never, never shall we stop. We went faster, and fas.... Oh, Mariella, your face.... I shall die....’
He writhed with laughter, the tears poured down his face. ‘I t-tried to say: drop the c—— I hadn’t any voice—Oh, what a feeling!... those skimming dreams.... O God!’