Every bough was swinging in the wind, every spring bird calling, and a
slanting sunlight dappled the grass. He thought of Theocritus, and the
river Cherwell, of the moon, and the maiden with the dewy eyes; of so
many things that he seemed to think of nothing; and he felt absurdly
happy.
2
During a late and sumptuous tea with eggs to it, cream and jam, and
thin, fresh cakes touched with saffron, Garton descanted on the Celts.
It was about the period of the Celtic awakening, and the discovery that
there was Celtic blood about this family had excited one who believed
that he was a Celt himself. Sprawling on a horse hair chair, with a
hand-made cigarette dribbling from the corner of his curly lips, he had
been plunging his cold pin-points of eyes into Ashurst's and praising
the refinement of the Welsh. To come out of Wales into England was like
the change from china to earthenware! Frank, as a d---d Englishman, had
not of course perceived the exquisite refinement and emotional capacity
of that Welsh girl! And, delicately stirring in the dark mat of his
still wet hair, he explained how exactly she illustrated the writings of
the Welsh bard Morgan-ap-Something in the twelfth century.
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