“And I will write about these things--no one cares and I will be as uncaring as any. I will be a great writer one day, and people will be brought to see the famous blind man who lends people in his books the eyes that he lost, and ...” Poor John, he was properly off it now. She did not understand all this writing stuff; and how did one do it, it would be so difficult when one could not see the page? “... but I am boring you.” “No, you’re not. Do go on.” “It is getting cold out here.” “Oh, don’t let’s go home just yet.” “So you like being out here?” “Yes.” Why had he told her about his writing? Now everything was spoilt. And of course she did not understand. She was lamentably stupid. They had better go home. “But you will catch a chill.” “Why should I? We can make each other warm.” And she pressed closer to him, and she laughed. She would call that snuggling, he thought. There was a pause. “John,” she said, pulling his arm, “how silent you are.” “I have just said so much.” “How do you mean? Oh, John, will you write about me?” “Perhaps.” “Fancy me being in a book. Just think.” “Would you like to be?” “Of course I would. Father writes books too, only they never get written.” “Does he put you in them?” “Oh no, they are not that sort.” “What sort are they?” “I don’t know. But he’s always talking about his writing.” She paused. “John, you’ll make me the person your hero’s in love with, won’t you? and your hero’ll be you, I suppose?” “Perhaps.” “You aren’t very chirpy now, are you, John?” “No, it is cold out here.” “But don’t I keep you warm?” “It is my other side that is so cold.” “Well, an’ perhaps we’d better go home.” “Yes, perhaps we had better go home.” They get up. He staggers, then, arm in arm, they go down the hill through the wood. “Mind, John, there’s a fallen tree here.” “Thanks. Where? Oh, here. June, how sad it is going home.” “Yes, it is. But we’ll go out again.” “Of course.” CHAPTER III FINISHING “HOW minute we are.” “Why?” “Well, this does not seem to be a time of great feelings, perhaps we have had too many of them lately. And we are so small compared to the trees. Gods come and go, but trees remain. By ‘small’ I don’t mean ‘in height.’ They seem to me so lasting, so grave in their fat green cloaks, or in winter like naked lace.” “There, an’ I’ve forgotten to feed the chickens.” “We are so petty, while time in the towns rolls by on well-oiled wheels with horrible efficiency. The machinery there goes on and on, and there are bits of it that are not right. The most horrible injustices.” “There’s no justice.” “No, there is no justice.”