When tea was over his father wanted him to walk round the gardens. He had a long conversation with his father about things in general, avoiding his private life⁠—Sir Lamorac, the Austrians, and the emptiness he had felt these last three days, now so suddenly filled up. His father told him of a place called Glensofantrim, where he and his mother had been; and of the little people who came out of the ground there when it was very quiet. Little Jon came to a halt, with his heels apart.

“Do you really believe they do, Daddy?”

“No, Jon, but I thought you might.”

“Why?”

“You’re younger than I; and they’re fairies.” Little Jon squared the dimple in his chin.

“I don’t believe in fairies. I never see any.”

“Ha!” said his father.

“Does Mum?”