'
They stood there in the sunshine on the dusty road talking of a
hundred half-forgotten things, as the haze of memory lifted, and
scenes and pictures, names and faces, details of fun and mischief
rained upon him like flowers in a sudden wind of spring. The voice and
face of his old tutor bridged the years like magic. Time had stood
still here in this fair Kentish garden. The little man in black who
came every Saturday morning with his dingy bag had forgotten to wind
the clocks, perhaps. ...
'But you will like to go inside and see it all for yourself--alone,'
the Vicar said at length. 'My housekeeper has the keys. I'll send a
boy with them to the lodge. It won't take five minutes. And then you
must come up to the Vicarage for tea--or dinner if you're kept--and
stay the night. My married daughter-you remember Joan and May, of
course?--is with us just now; she'll be so very glad to see you. You
know the way.'
And he moved off down the country road, still vigorous at seventy,
with his black straw hat and big square-toed boots, his shoulders
hardly more bent than when his mischievous pupil had called every
morning with Vergil and Todhunter underneath one arm, and in his heart
a lust to hurry after sleepy rabbits in the field.
'My married daughter--you remember May?'
The blue-eyed girl of his boyhood passion flitted beside his
disappearing figure.
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