Nannie had
dropped out of the world this second time, and Beatrice was in the
charge of an extremely amiable and ineffectual poor army-class young
woman whose name I never knew. They were, I think, two remarkably
illmanaged and enterprising children. I seem to remember too, that it
was understood that I was not a fit companion for them, and that our
meetings had to be as unostentatious as possible. It was Beatrice who
insisted upon our meeting.
I am certain I knew quite a lot about love at fourteen and that I was
quite as much in love with Beatrice then as any impassioned adult could
be, and that Beatrice was, in her way, in love with me. It is part of
the decent and useful pretences of our world that children of the age at
which we were, think nothing, feel nothing, know nothing of love. It
is wonderful what people the English are for keeping up pretences. But
indeed I cannot avoid telling that Beatrice and I talked of love and
kissed and embraced one another.
I recall something of one talk under the overhanging bushes of the
shrubbery--I on the park side of the stone wall, and the lady of my
worship a little inelegantly astride thereon.
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