"
"He is talking great nonsense, room," said a very small voice, "but it
is beautiful nonsense, and I am a wicked girl, and I hope that he will
talk some more. And please, I think we will go into the garden and see."
All the way back down the flagged path to the herb-garden they were
quiet--even after he had arranged the cushions against the rose-red
wall, even after he had stretched out at full length beside her and
lighted another pipe.
After a while he said, staring at the straw hive: "There used to be a
jolly little fat brown one that was a great pal of mine. How long do
bees live?"
"I don't know," she answered vaguely, and after a long pause, full of
quiet, pleasant odors from the bee-garden, and the sleepy happy noises
of small things tucking themselves away for the night, and the faint but
poignant drift of tobacco smoke, she asked: "What was it about 'honey
still for tea'?"
"Oh, that!" He raised himself on one elbow so that he could see her
better. "It was a poem I came across while I was in East Africa; some
one sent a copy of Rupert Brooke's things to a chap out there, and this
one fastened itself around me like a vise. It starts where he's sitting
in a cafe in Berlin with a lot of German Jews around him, swallowing
down their beer; and suddenly he remembers.
Pages:
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390