The bracken swayed, a delicate, golden trellis broken here and there
into turquoise like a mosaic; the birches shook their golden spangles;
and the little harebells, their stems invisible in the welter of gold,
swayed like jewels on invisible chains: all the world was wonderful,
wonderful, wonderful, and its wonder was throbbing in me, and all I
could say was:
"When is the next train?"
*VIII*
I am writing this in my bedroom at Cromer Court, at a Queen Anne desk,
and by-and-by I am going to climb in a Queen Anne bed to watch the
firelight flicker on the white panelled walls, on the quaintest chintz I
have ever seen covering the chairs and the great divan, and fluttering
like restless wings over open windows--pale green linen, the colour of
young leaves, with bunches of white-heart cherries scattered over it.
I feel simple as a milkmaid and good as a nun in this dear old house,
and I have never felt so happy. It is a precarious happiness. I should
think the wives of the husbands home on leave feel it the last two days.
It is a sort of happiness that freezes you while you are hugging it to
you because of its warmth, and turns and rends you while you are
caressing it--painful and beautiful at the same time.