'LET'S pretend,' suggested Harold, 'that we're Cavaliers and Roundheads;
and _you_ be a Roundhead!'
'O bother,' I replied drowsily, 'we pretended that yesterday; and it's
not my turn to be a Roundhead, anyhow.' The fact is, I was lazy, and the
call to arms fell on indifferent ears. We three younger ones were
stretched at length in the orchard. The sun was hot, the season merry
June, and never (I thought) had there been such wealth and riot of
buttercups throughout the lush grass. Green-and-gold was the dominant
key that day. Instead of active 'pretence' with its shouts and its
perspiration, how much better--I held--to lie at ease and pretend to
one's self, in green and golden fancies, slipping the husk and passing,
a careless lounger, through a sleepy imaginary world all gold and
green! But the persistent Harold was not to be fobbed off.
'Well then,' he began afresh, 'let's pretend we're Knights of the Round
Table; and (with a rush) _I'll_ be Lancelot!'
'I won't play unless I'm Lancelot,' I said. I didn't mean it really, but
the game of Knights always began with this particular contest.
'O _please_,' implored Harold. 'You know when Edward's here I never get
a chance of being Lancelot. I haven't been Lancelot for weeks!'