“That is better. I have it captive now. It is like holding a bird.” “Oh you!” “Oh me?” “You are a funny boy.” “Do call me John.” “Funny John.” “How is your other hand, the one that was cut?” “It is better now. But it did hurt.” “Poor hand. I was so sorry.” “Were you? That was nice. There was no one who cared.” “Poor June. But didn’t your Father mind?” “No, he never would. He is always thinking of himself.” “Well, he ought to have. It was ...” “No, no, he oughtn’t, it wasn’t his fault, he is a genius, you know. Great thoughts he has, not like you and me. Above it all.” Not like you and me! “But, poor hand. Give it me, June. Ah, now I have both your hands--so much and yet so little.” “No, don’t press it like that, you are hurting.” “How much would you give me of yours?” “Of mine? Why? Well, I haven’t very much to give. But if you like, I’ll give you a brooch of my mother’s which is broken so as I can’t use it. You will remember me by that. But I expect you have a bad memory, John.” “Only when I have nothing to remember.” “What shall I give you, then?” “What you like best.” “And what will you give me?” “A ring, and more, perhaps.” “You are nice, John.” “Aren’t I?” “Oh, well, I never. Don’t you ever think of me? It’s always you, you, you.” “But of course I think of you much more than you would believe possible. And you come to me in my dreams.” “John!” “Yes, dear. It’s true, even if I haven’t told you before.” “How wonderful!” “It is, and more than wonderful.” He laughed, and there was a pause. “No, it’s not comfortable, your holding both my hands.” “Here is one back, then.” “John, the sun’s come out and the Abbey has gone all gold.” “And it has caught the trees as well, perhaps? When the sun came out for a moment it used to be a great thing for me, and I have sat here entranced, but when you think that all this doesn’t bother itself about one at all, it is a trifle boring.” “John, you are very like Father.” “Am I? How?” “I don’t know. You talk the same.” “Do I? Oh, well. But I used to dream here so. Have you never dreamed, June--about things, I mean?” “Yes, perhaps.” “And what do you do all day? There must be time to dream.” “Oh, there’s lots to do. But I do dream.” “What about?” “I don’t know.” “And this place would fit in with my mood. A view helps, do you find that?” “Yes.” “At last, something definite. You really think that?” “I suppose I do, seeing as how I said it.” “You are frightened of your feelings. But one soon grows out of that. I did a year ago.” “An’ then there is the river. I sit on the bank sometimes an’ watch it going by.” “I know. I love doing that. Do you fish?” “No, I don’t know how to.” “I used to, but I can’t now.” “Poor John.” “Poor me. But it will not be ‘poor me’ if you are nice.” “But aren’t I being nice?” “Fairly.” “Well, I never! Only fairly? What more do you want?” “Lots more.” “You are a one. But it is nice up here.” “With you. Say ‘with you.’”