XVIII. An Adventure on the Tory Road

           “Anne,”saidDavy,sittingupinbedandproppinghischinonhishands,“Anne,whereissleep?Peoplegotosleepeverynight,andofcourseIknowit’stheplacewhereIdothethingsIdream,butIwanttoknowWHEREitisandhowIgetthereandbackwithoutknowinganythingaboutit...andinmynightytoo.Whereisit?”

           Annewaskneelingatthewestgablewindowwatchingthesunsetskythatwaslikeagreatflowerwithpetalsofcrocusandaheartoffieryyellow.SheturnedherheadatDavy’squestionandanswereddreamily,

           “‘Overthemountainsofthemoon,

           Downthevalleyoftheshadow.’”

           PaulIrvingwouldhaveknownthemeaningofthis,ormadeameaningoutofitforhimself,ifhedidn’t;butpracticalDavy,who,asAnneoftendespairinglyremarked,hadn’taparticleofimagination,wasonlypuzzledanddisgusted.

           “Anne,Ibelieveyou’rejusttalkingnonsense.”

           “Ofcourse,Iwas,dearboy.Don’tyouknowthatitisonlyveryfoolishfolkwhotalksenseallthetime?”

           “Well,IthinkyoumightgiveasensibleanswerwhenIaskasensiblequestion,”saidDavyinaninjuredtone.

           “Oh,youaretoolittletounderstand,”saidAnne.Butshefeltratherashamedofsayingit;forhadshenot,inkeenremembranceofmanysimilarsnubsadministeredinherownearlyyears,solemnlyvowedthatshewouldnevertellanychilditwastoolittletounderstand?Yethereshewasdoingit...sowidesometimesisthegulfbetweentheoryandpractice.

           “Well,I’mdoingmybesttogrow,”saidDavy,“butit’sathingyoucan’thurrymuch.