human ritual, the grave airy dancing of creation treading softly its dark measure to unheard, undreamed music. The smallest alteration in the mind's pace changes everything, as some trifling misprint turns a commonplace newspaper headline into obscenity.
They drove into the stable.
"I miss the nice old horsey smell," said Ruth. "Too bad, it's only a garage now."
"Which was it you wanted to revive, the horsey smell or the embraces of Ben?" said George. "The loft hasn't changed much, I think."
He snapped on the light. While the others climbed the narrow little stair behind the old feed bins he filled the radiator with water and poured oil into the crank case. Morosely he heard their words overhead.
"Someone's left a blanket up here."
"Look, the bay's all full of moonlight. I didn't remember it was like that."
"We were children then, we didn't know about the moon. We had to go to bed too early."
"The old swing's gone." (This was Mr. Martin's voice.)
"Why . . . how did you know? Yes, that's where it was, that beam. . . ."
I thought that lunatic had been here before,
