‘Of course, if you’d really like to go. By-the-by, suppose we improve the occasion by landing at Stratford, and walking Gerald over to Shottery to see Ann Hathaway’s cottage.’ ‘Delicious,’ cried Daphne. ‘It shall be a regular Shakespearian pilgrimage. We’ll take tea and things, and have kettledrum in Mrs. Baker’s house-place. She’ll let me do what I like, I know. And Mr. Goring shall carry the basket, as a punishment for his hideous apathy. And we’ll talk to him about Shakespeare’s early life all the way.’ ‘Shakespeare’s life, forsooth!’ cried Gerald scornfully. ‘Who is there that knows anything about it? Half-a-dozen entries in a parish register; a few traditional sayings of Ben Jonson’s; and a pack of sentimentalists—English and German—evolve out of their inner consciousness a sentimental biography. “We may picture him as a youth going across the fields to Shottery: because it is the shortest way, and a man of his Titanic mind would naturally have taken it: yes, over the same meadows we tread this day: on the same ground, if not actually on the same grass.” Or again: “Seeing that Apostle-spoons were still in common use in the reign of Elizabeth, it may be fairly concluded that the immortal poet used one for his bread and treacle: for who shall affirm that he did not eat bread and treacle, that the inspired lad of the Stratford grammar-school had not the same weaknesses and boyish affections as his schoolmates? Who would not love to possess Shakespeare’s spoon, or to eat out of Shakespeare’s porringer?” That is the kind of rot which clever men write about Shakespeare: and I think it is because I have been overdosed with such stuff that I have learned to detest the bard in his private character.’ ‘You are a hardened infidel, and you shall certainly carry the basket.’ ‘What, madam, would you degrade me to a hireling’s office? “Gregory, o’ my word, we’ll not carry coals.”’ ‘There, you see,’ cried Daphne triumphantly, ‘you can’t live without quoting him. He has interwoven himself with our daily speech.’ ‘Because we are parrots, without ideas of our own,’ answered Gerald. ‘Oh, I am proud of belonging to the soil on which he was reared. I wish there was one drop of his blood in my veins. I envy Edgar because his remote ancestry claim kin with the Ardens. I almost wish I were a Turchill.’ ‘That would be so easy to accomplish,’ said Edgar softly, blushing at his own audacity. Daphne noticed neither his speech nor his confusion. She was all excitement at the idea of an adventurous afternoon, were it only a visit to the familiar cottage. ‘Madoline, dearest, may I order them to pack us a really nice tea?’ she asked. ‘Yes, dear, if we are all decided upon going.’ ‘It seems to me that the whole thing has been decided for us,’ said Gerald, smiling indulgently at the vivacious face, radiant in the broad noonday light, the willowy figure in a white gown flecked and chequered with sunshine.