The slopes rushed away from every side of it.  There was a dark secret beneath those trees, there was a hint of very ancient love and still more ancient hatred.  You could feel things beyond understanding, you left fact outside under the sky, and went in with a naked soul.

They walked across it in silence, well apart from each other.  When they came out the other side, Mrs. Gustus said, “We must stay for a little while within reach of this.  It has something ...”

Mr. Russell swallowed something that he had thought of saying, and instead drew his Hound’s attention to a yellow square of mustard-field which made brilliant the distance.

Kew said nothing, but he felt choked with a lost remembrance of a very old childhood.  He seemed to taste the quiet taste of youth here, there was even a feeling of going home through a damp evening to a nursery tea.  It was the nursery of all Secret Worlds.  Gods had been born there.  No surprise could live there now, no wonder, no protest.  The years like minutes fled between those trees, dynasties might fall during the singing of a bird.  I think the thing that haunted the wood was a thing exactly as old and as romantic as the first child that tracked its Secret Friend across the floor of a forest.

Oh, friend of childlike mind, what is it that these two years have taken from us, what is it that we have lost, oh friend, besides contentment?

All the way home Kew sang very loudly the first tune he ever knew.

When the Family (including Mr. Russell) got back to the inn, the lamb and the gooseberry tart and Cousin Gustus were all waiting for them.  But they were delayed in the hall.  A stout young woman with a pleasant face of small vocabulary turned from the visitors’ book and stopped Mrs. Gustus.

“Are you the Mrs. Augustus Martin?” she asked.

“I am she,” replied Anonyma.  Her grammar in moments of emergency always impressed Kew.

I cannot say that Mrs. Gustus seemed surprised.  She was the sort of person to hide even from herself the fact that this thing had never happened before.  She remained perfectly calm as if repeating a hackneyed experience.  Kew was astonished.  Mr. Russell shared this feeling.  Having a certain personal admiration for Mrs. Gustus, he had tried on more than one occasion to find pleasure in her books, but without success.

The stout young lady said nothing more than “Oh” for the moment, but she breathed it in such a manner that Mrs. Gustus saw at once the duty of asking her to dine with the Family.

When the admirer was introduced to Cousin Gustus, she said, “Oh, so this is your husband ...” and gazed on that melancholy man with eagerness.  When she saw Mr. Russell’s Hound she said, “And this is your dog,” and was about to crown him with a corresponding halo when Mrs. Gustus disclaimed the connection.

“It is wonderful to meet you, of all people, in this romantic place,” said the admirer as she pursued her peas.  “Do you know, whenever I finish one of your books, I feel so romantic I want to kiss everybody I meet.  Oh, those courtly heroes of yours!”