"But why, Stephen?"
"So that I could buy my dreams. So that I could purchase peace with
little dabs of brown in a pipe-bowl, little puffs of white in the palm
of my hand, little drops of liquid on a ball of cotton. So that I could
drug myself with dirt--and forget the dirt and remember England."
He rose to his feet with that swift grace of his, and Daphne rose too,
slowly.
"I am going now; will you walk to the gate with me?"
He matched his long step to hers, watching the troubled wonder on her
small white face intently.
"How old are you, my Dryad?"
"I am seventeen."
"Seventeen! Oh, God be good to us, I had forgotten that one could be
seventeen. What's that?"
He paused, suddenly alert, listening to a distant whistle, sweet on the
summer air.
"Oh, that--that is Robin."
"Ah--" His smile flashed, tender and ironic. "And who is Robin?"
"He is--just Robin. He is down from Cambridge for a week, and I told him
that he might walk home with me."
"Then I must be off quickly. Is he coming to this gate?"
"No, to the south one."
"Listen to me, my Dryad--are you listening?" For her face was turned
away.
"Yes," said Daphne.
"You are going to forget me--to forget this afternoon--to forget
everything but Robin whistling through the summer twilight.
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