"Well, at present, if you take the trouble to go into the Rosery you will find Nevil lying by the fountain catching goldfish with Max. I do not think he remembered I'd been away." "Oh, I am glad," cried Patricia, clapping her hands; "of course it's very nice of him to be so clever and write so beautifully, but it's much nicer when he's just a dear silly thing--and catches goldfish. But tell me about yourself now. Are you well? And have you been working hard? Why aren't you in Belgium, why have you come, and what are you going to do, and when are you going back?" "Stop, I can't keep more than five questions in my head at once and I've answered several of yours already. The first is trivial; you have eyes. I have been working as usual; it's no use to explain how, you have no conception of work at all. I am not in Belgium because I am here in a better place. I am going to enjoy myself, I hope, and I shall go away when it pleases me." "Indeed, Your Highness. You have not explained why you came." "I think," said Christopher, considering hard and speaking with slow deliberation, "I _think_, only it is so preposterously silly, that I came to see you, or perhaps it was Caesar or Nevil if it were not Max." Patricia laughed deliciously and leant forward, making pretence to box his ears. Christopher shook the bough in revenge till she cried pax, and peace supervened. "Since you have evidently no business of your own to see to," she said severely, "it shall be my business to teach you to appreciate Robert Bridges." "I don't like his name; who is he?" Christopher grumbled. "He is a genius and you must sit at his feet and listen." "Isn't it respectful to stand?" She regarded him gravely with her head on one side. "True humility sits ill on you, I fear. You may stand if you take off your hat." He flung it on the grass obediently. "The Cliff Edge." "The Cliff Edge has a carpet ... of purple, gold, and green." She read the little poem all through, her sweet, appreciative voice making music of the lines already melodious. Christopher wondered if the writer ever knew how beautiful his words could be made. "Is that not lovely?" she asked when she finished, leaning forward so that her hand and the book rested for a moment on his arm. Christopher nodded without moving. "It makes me thirsty for the sea," she went on, "for sky, for space to move and breathe. Oh, Christopher, things here are either old or small. All the great and beautiful things are old, the glory of it, the house, the life, the very trees, old, old, old. And the rest is small, protected and shut in. I want to feel things that are young and free and great, as the sky and sea and the wind. I am thirsty sometimes to stand on the edge of the cliff and taste the free, free air from off the sea that has no one else's thoughts in it. Do you understand that?--the longing for something that does not belong to any part, to any one?" "Yes, I understand. I feel it too, sometimes."