"That's what it is."
"That's it," agreed Mrs. Horton. "Like a recipe."
There was another pause. The butler broke it. They stood together in
the middle of the field, flowers and birds and sunshine all about
them.
"A mystery--inside of us," he said, "I think--"
"Yes, Alfred," the cook murmured softly.
"_I_ think," he continued, "it's a song and dance we want. A little
life." He broke off abruptly, noticing the sudden movement of her
bursting shoes. She took a long step forwards, then sideways. She
opened her arms to the air and sun. She almost pirouetted.
"Life!" she cried, "'ot and fiery. Life! That's it. Hark, Alfred, d'ye
hear that singing far away?" She felt the Irish break out of her.
"Listen!" she cried, trying to drag him faster. "Listen, will ye? It
makes me wild entirely! Give me yer hand! Come on and dance wid me!
It's in me hearrt I feel it, in me blood. To the devil with me suet
puddings and shepherd-poies--that singing's real, that's loife, that's
lovely as a dhream! It's what I've been looking for iver since I can
remember. I've got it!"
And Thompson felt himself spinning through the air.
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