Inglewood looked around dreamily, his brown eyes devouring all sorts of details with a senseless delight.  He noticed for the first time that the railings of the gate beyond the garden bushes were moulded like little spearheads and painted blue.  He noticed that one of the blue spears was loosened in its place, and hung sideways; and this almost made him laugh.  He thought it somehow exquisitely harmless and funny that the railing should be crooked; he thought he should like to know how it happened, who did it, and how the man was getting on.

When they were gone a few feet across that fiery grass they realized that they were not alone.  Rosamund Hunt and the eccentric Mr. Moon, both of whom they had last seen in the blackest temper of detachment, were standing together on the lawn.  They were standing in quite an ordinary manner, and yet they looked somehow like people in a book.

“Oh,” said Diana, “what lovely air!”

“I know,” called out Rosamund, with a pleasure so positive that it rang out like a complaint.  “It’s just like that horrid, beastly fizzy stuff they gave me that made me feel happy.”

“Oh, it isn’t like anything but itself!” answered Diana, breathing deeply.  “Why, it’s all cold, and yet it feels like fire.”

“Balmy is the word we use in Fleet Street,” said Mr. Moon.  “Balmy—­especially on the crumpet.”  And he fanned himself quite unnecessarily with his straw hat.  They were all full of little leaps and pulsations of objectless and airy energy.  Diana stirred and stretched her long arms rigidly, as if crucified, in a sort of excruciating restfulness; Michael stood still for long intervals, with gathered muscles, then spun round like a teetotum, and stood still again; Rosamund did not trip, for women never trip, except when they fall on their noses, but she struck the ground with her foot as she moved, as if to some inaudible dance tune; and Inglewood, leaning quite quietly against a tree, had unconsciously clutched a branch and shaken it with a creative violence.  Those giant gestures of Man, that made the high statues and the strokes of war, tossed and tormented all their limbs.  Silently as they strolled and stood they were bursting like batteries with an animal magnetism.

“And now,” cried Moon quite suddenly, stretching out a hand on each side, “let’s dance round that bush!”

“Why, what bush do you mean?” asked Rosamund, looking round with a sort of radiant rudeness.

“The bush that isn’t there,” said Michael—­“the Mulberry Bush.”

They had taken each other’s hands, half laughing and quite ritually; and before they could disconnect again Michael spun them all round, like a demon spinning the world for a top.  Diana felt, as the circle of the horizon flew instantaneously around her, a far aerial sense of the ring of heights beyond London and corners where she had climbed as a child; she seemed almost to hear the rooks cawing about the old pines on Highgate, or to see the glowworms gathering and kindling in the woods of Box Hill.