Don't you love the thymy
smell? I don't know why, but it always makes me think of poetry--and
_that_." She lifted her rapt face to where, like a fountain of sound, a
lark flooded the blue. "To lift up, and up, and up, to be so lovely
because one was so glad! Nobody could do that!--except Jack," she added
half in a whisper.
"That old chap's not a man," said Chevenix, "he's a spirit."
"They used to call him the Faun, at Bill Hill, where I first met him," she
said. "I fancy now that I never knew him at all. But he knew all about me.
That's why I'm so happy. Nobody has ever known me since--and it's such a
bore to have to explain yourself. Other people seem to think I am
extraordinary. I'm not at all--I'm the most ordinary person in the world.
But he liked me like that."
Chevenix, watching her, said, "He'll like you like this, I expect. May I
tell you that you're a heady compound? Do be quiet. Remember that I'm
holding the chain. I won't swear to every link." She laughed, and pressed
forward, the wind kissing her eyes.
They reached the racecourse, and had, behind them and before, two valleys.
Their road lay now due west, keeping the ridge--a broad grass track belted
rarely by woods on the north, but open on the south to hill and vale in
diversity of sun and shade, a billowy sea of grass where no sign of man
was to be seen.
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