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.
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