“But this isn’t very interesting for you,” she said, looking up.

“Good Lord!” Hewet exclaimed.  “I’ve never been so much interested in my life.”  She then realised that while she had been thinking of Richmond, his eyes had never left her face.  The knowledge of this excited her.

“Go on, please go on,” he urged.  “Let’s imagine it’s a Wednesday.  You’re all at luncheon.  You sit there, and Aunt Lucy there, and Aunt Clara here”; he arranged three pebbles on the grass between them.

“Aunt Clara carves the neck of lamb,” Rachel continued.  She fixed her gaze upon the pebbles.  “There’s a very ugly yellow china stand in front of me, called a dumb waiter, on which are three dishes, one for biscuits, one for butter, and one for cheese.  There’s a pot of ferns.  Then there’s Blanche the maid, who snuffles because of her nose.  We talk—­oh yes, it’s Aunt Lucy’s afternoon at Walworth, so we’re rather quick over luncheon.  She goes off.  She has a purple bag, and a black notebook.  Aunt Clara has what they call a G.F.S. meeting in the drawing-room on Wednesday, so I take the dogs out.  I go up Richmond Hill, along the terrace, into the park.  It’s the 18th of April—­the same day as it is here.  It’s spring in England.  The ground is rather damp.  However, I cross the road and get on to the grass and we walk along, and I sing as I always do when I’m alone, until we come to the open place where you can see the whole of London beneath you on a clear day.  Hampstead Church spire there, Westminster Cathedral over there, and factory chimneys about here.  There’s generally a haze over the low parts of London; but it’s often blue over the park when London’s in a mist.  It’s the open place that the balloons cross going over to Hurlingham.  They’re pale yellow.  Well, then, it smells very good, particularly if they happen to be burning wood in the keeper’s lodge which is there.  I could tell you now how to get from place to place, and exactly what trees you’d pass, and where you’d cross the roads.  You see, I played there when I was small.  Spring is good, but it’s best in the autumn when the deer are barking; then it gets dusky, and I go back through the streets, and you can’t see people properly; they come past very quick, you just see their faces and then they’re gone—­that’s what I like—­and no one knows in the least what you’re doing—­”

“But you have to be back for tea, I suppose?” Hewet checked her.

“Tea?  Oh yes.  Five o’clock.  Then I say what I’ve done, and my aunts say what they’ve done, and perhaps some one comes in:  Mrs. Hunt, let’s suppose.  She’s an old lady with a lame leg.  She has or she once had eight children; so we ask after them.  They’re all over the world; so we ask where they are, and sometimes they’re ill, or they’re stationed in a cholera district, or in some place where it only rains once in five months.  Mrs. Hunt,” she said with a smile, “had a son who was hugged to death by a bear.”