I wanted something more green and peaceful and habitable, and it was to the Cotswolds that my memory turned with longing.
I puzzled over this till I realized that in all my Cotswold pictures a figure kept going and coming--a young girl with a cloud of gold hair and the strong, slim grace of a boy, who had sung 'Cherry Ripe' in a moonlit garden.

Up on that hillside I understood very clearly that I, who had been as careless of women as any monk, had fallen wildly in love with a child of half my age.

I was loath to admit it, though for weeks the conclusion had been forcing itself on me.

Not that I didn't revel in my madness, but that it seemed too hopeless a business, and I had no use for barren philandering.

But, seated on a rock munching chocolate and biscuits, I faced up to the fact and resolved to trust my luck.