“But where? But where? Tell me!”
“There—wherever it may be—in our country, I suppose. Do you remember the first time you rode it—the Thirty-Mile-Ride, I mean? You must.”
“It was all dreams—all dreams!”
“Yes, but tell, please; because I know.”
“Let me think. I—we were on no account to make any noise—on no account to make any noise.” She was staring between Dandy’s ears, with eyes that did not see, and a suffocating heart.
“Because ‘It’ was dying in the big house?” Georgie went on, reining in again.
“There was a garden with green-and-gilt railings—all hot. Do you remember?”
“I ought to. I was sitting on the other side of the bed before ‘It’ coughed and ‘They’ came in.”
“You!”—the deep voice was unnaturally full and strong, and the girl’s wide-opened eyes burned in the dusk as she stared him through and through. “Then you’re the Boy—my Brushwood Boy, and I’ve known you all my life!”
She fell forward on Dandy’s neck. Georgie forced himself out of the weakness that was overmastering his limbs, and slid an arm round her waist. The head dropped on his shoulder, and he found himself with parched lips saying things that up till then he believed existed only in printed works of fiction. Mercifully the horses were quiet. She made no attempt to draw herself away when she recovered, but lay still, whispering, “Of course you’re the Boy, and I didn’t know—I didn’t know.”