“ Yes,” she admitted slowly. “And my ideal has always been a farm. But I know now. The farms don’t really belong to the land. They only scratch it and irritate it, and are never at one with it.”
Whereupon she returned to her Nat Gould, and there was silence save for the hollow of the wind. When she had finished her paper-backed book she said:
“ It’s just like them—just like they think they are.”
“ Yes,” he said vaguely.
“ But, bah!” she added, “they make me sick. So absolutely dull—worse than an ‘At Home’ in the middle classes.”
And after a silence, another shriek of laughter suddenly.
“ Like a flying-fish! Like a flying-fish dashing into the waves! Dashing into the waves after his hat—”
He giggled on his tub.
“ Fancy, that I’m here in Coo-ee after my day’s outi
