ss
the hill, despising these grassy slopes as befitted one who knew the
Apennines. Here were line and colour and wind and a freshening spirit
that was alien to the stuffy town below: here was something to enjoy in
peace, something which made the Georgics real and the world something
more than a place to live in.

And Anstey had brought him to the downs. The average Elfreyan thought
climbing that slippery turf a horrid sweat, connected it with the
compulsory runs of winter, and preferred to lounge in his arid house
yard. Until now Martin had avoided the downs, because it wasn't the
thing to go there: but when he had found the dip to Friar's Hanger and
the great wood of larches beyond, he cursed the game of cricket and
longed to escape from the tyranny of games. He had taken beauty for
granted just as he had taken goodness and truth for granted: somehow
they existed and that was all. Now he found the idea suffusing visible
things and he knew how much he had missed by lounging in Berney's yard.
A new door was opened. It had been opened by Anstey and the light from
within was reflected on the opener, transfiguring for Martin the swift
grace of his movements and giving to the rapid stream of his thoughts a
depth which they really lacked. A dam had burst and Martin had no
longer to seek an outlet for his emotions. Gladly he entered on
strange paths of sentiment, and he no longer deceived himself with the
lie that his friendship with Anstey was comparable to his friendship
for Gregson or Rayner. One afternoon they found a new path and a new
hollow where the young bracken made a couch softer than the bare
hill-side. Here there was no clack of cricket balls, no nets, no
shouting of 'Heads' and terrified ducking. Only the wind whispered in
the bracken and an old sheep grunted in the sun, for the weather was
warm and he should long ago have been sheared.

The two boys lay in silence, pretending to read.

"It's ripping of you to be bothered with me," said Martin suddenly.

"What do you mean?" said Anstey.

"I mean that you aren't my sort. You see things much more quickly than
I do. You don't plod like me."

"I haven't your brains--that's the truth."

"No, it isn't. Of course it isn't." Yet Martin was half-conscious
that he lied. His affection for Anstey had forced him to tell a
needless falsehood in a futile effort to quiet the voice which cried
within him: "He isn't good enough for you." Then he added: "Yo