He moved his hand, with its heavy gold signet-ring.
"This is the place," he said, "where I come to imagine."
"I see," said Marian. "But why do you imagine the boy?"
He reached for his coat and took something out of a pocket-book.
"This is his photograph," he said. "He was my only son."
The two children looked at it, and then gave it back to him.
"He was fond of cricket," he said. "He died at school."
Then he rose to his feet, and they followed him out of the wood.
"Well, what was it," he said, "that you wanted to ask me?"
They told him, and his face became stern again.