chocolate she had found in her pocket, and began making a boat. He watched her without heeding her. There was something strangely pathetic and tender in her moving, unconscious finger-tips, that were agitated and hurt, really.

‘I DO enjoy things — don’t you?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes! But it infuriates me that I can’t get right, at the really growing part of me. I feel all tangled and messed up, and I CAN’T get straight anyhow. I don’t know what really to DO. One must do something somewhere.’

‘Why should you always be DOING?’ she retorted. ‘It is so plebeian. I think it is much better to be really patrician, and to do nothing but just be oneself, like a walking flower.’