Part 59 (1/2)

ERN. Oo! Look! (He points at GERVASE'S legs.)

GERVASE. What is it now? My legs? Oh, but surely you've noticed those before?

ERN (sitting down in front of GERVASE). Oo!

GERVASE. Really, I don't understand you. I came up here for a walk in a perfectly ordinary blue suit, and you do nothing but say ”Oo.” What does your father wear when he's ploughing? I suppose you don't walk all round _him_ and say ”Oo!” What does your Uncle George wear when he's reaping? I suppose you don't--By the way, I wish you'd tell me your name. (ERN gazes at him dumbly.) Oh, come! They must have told you your name when you got up this moving.

ERN (smiling sheepishly). Ern.

GERVASE (bowing). How do you do? I am very glad to meet you, Mr.

Hearne. My name is Mallory. (ERN grins) Thank you.

ERN (tapping himself). I'm Ern.

GERVASE. Yes, I'm Mallory.

ERN. Ern.

GERVASE. Mallory. We can't keep on saying this to each other, you know, because then we never get any farther. Once an introduction is over, Mr. Hearne, we are--

ERN. Ern.

GERVASE. Yes, I know. I was very glad to hear it. But now--Oh, I see what you mean. Ern--short for Ernest?

ERN (nodding). They calls me Ern.

GERVASE. That's very friendly of them. Being more of a stranger I shall call you Ernest. Well, Ernest-- (getting up) Just excuse me a moment, will you? Very penetrating bark this tree has. It must be a Pomeranian. (He folds his cloak upon it and sits down again) That's better. Now we can talk comfortably together. I don't know if there's anything you particularly want to discuss--nothing?--well, then, I will suggest the subject of breakfast.

ERN (grinning). 'Ad my breakfast.

GERVASE. You've _had_ yours? You selfish brute! . . . Of course, you're wondering why I haven't had mine.

ERN. Bacon fat. (He makes reminiscent noises.)

GERVASE. Don't keep on going through all the courses. Well, what happened was this. My car broke down. I suppose you never had a motor car of your own.

ERN. Don't like moty cars.

GERVASE. Well, really, after last night I'm inclined to agree with you. Well, no, I oughtn't to say that, because, if I hadn't broken down, I should never have seen Her. Ernest, I don't know if you're married or anything of that sort, but I think even your rough stern heart would have been moved by that vision of loveliness which I saw last night. (He is silent for a little, thinking of her.) Well, then, I lost my way. There I was--ten miles from anywhere--in the middle of what was supposed to be a short cut--late at night--Midsummer Night--what would _you_ have done, Ernest?

ERN. Gone 'ome.

GERVASE. Don't be silly. How could I go home when I didn't know where home was, and it was a hundred miles away, and I'd just seen the Princess? No, I did what your father or your Uncle George or any wise man would have done, I sat in the car and thought of Her.

ERN. Oo!

GERVASE. You are surprised? Ah, but if you'd seen her. . . . Have you ever been alone in the moonlight on Midsummer Night--I don't mean just for a minute or two, but all through the night until the dawn came?

You aren't really alone, you know. All round you there are little whisperings going on, little breathings, little rustlings. Somebody is out hunting; somebody stirs in his sleep as he dreams again the hunt of yesterday; somebody up in the tree-tops pipes suddenly to the dawn, and then, finding that the dawn has not come, puts his silly little head back under his wing and goes to sleep again. . . . And the fairies are out. Do you believe in fairies, Ernest? You would have believed in them last night. I heard them whispering.

ERN. Oo!