Jerrold and Anne sat together on the grass under the beech trees, alone.

They had got over the shock of the first encounter, when they met at
arms' length, not kissing, but each remembering, shyly, that they used
to kiss. If they had not got over the "difference," the change of Anne
from a child to a big girl, of Jerrold from a big boy to a man's height
and a man's voice, it was because, in some obscure way, that difference
fascinated them. The great thing was that underneath it they were both,
as Anne said, "the same."

"I don't know what I'd have done, Jerrold, if you hadn't been."

"You might have known I would be."

"I did know."

"I say, what a thundering lot of hair you've got. I like it."

"Do you like what Auntie Adeline calls my new nose?"

"Awfully."

She meditated. "Jerrold, do you remember Benjy?"

"Rather."

"Dear Benjy... Do you know, I can hardly believe I'm here. I never
thought I should come again."