"All right," said Lucilla shortly. And they went in.
"And look here," said Jane, "don't let's talk."
"I'm not the one who usually wants to talk," said Lucilla, busy with bootlaces.
"No. I know. It's me. But not this time. This time I want to think. Really to think. I'm not sure, but I don't believe I ever have really thought yet. I've only dreamed and imagined and planned. Now I'm going to try to think. Come on—how horribly narrow these stairs are! Latch the gate; it looks tidier. Now we'll step out. Which way? It doesn't matter a bit. What was I saying? Oh, that I meant to try to think. And you try to, too. It won't be easy, because I don't believe you've ever done it before either. And when we get home we'll tell each other what we think. If we begin to talk about everything now we shall only get confused. We want to see it clearly and see it whole, and"
"I thought we weren't going to talk?" Lucilla put in.
"No more we are. I'll shut up like a knife in a minute. I want to say one thing, though."
"So do I," said Lucilla. "I want to say I think it's a beastly shame."
"No, no!" said Jane eagerly. "Don't start your thinking with that, or you'll never get anywhere. It isn't a shame and it isn't beastly. I'll tell you what it is, Lucy. And that's where we must start our thinking from. Everything that's happening to us—yes, everything—is to be regarded as a lark. See? This is my last word. This. Is. Going. To. Be. A. Lark."
"Is it?" said Lucilla. "And that's my last word."
They walked on in silence. The houses grew fewer. There were fields instead of market-gardens. Trees; hedges. A lonely, tumble-down cottage. A big deserted house, with windows boarded up, standing in a walled garden. A lane; a stile; more trees, and a long stretch of white grass-bordered road—real country. They walked sturdily along the dusty road. The sun was warm and grew warmer. The road rose
