"I told--What was his name?--a ferrety-looking youngster we
used to call Squiff."

"Young Hopkins," said I.

"Hopkins it was. I did not like telling him, I had a feeling
that in some way it was against the rules to tell him, but I did.
He was walking part of the way home with me; he was talkative, and
if we had not talked about the enchanted garden we should have
talked of something else, and it was intolerable to me to think
about any other subject. So I blabbed.

"Well, he told my secret. The next day in the play interval
I found myself surrounded by half a dozen bigger boys, half teasing
and wholly curious to hear more of the enchanted garden. There was
that big Fawcett--you remember him?--and Carnaby and Morley
Reynolds. You weren't there by any chance? No, I think I should
have remembered if you were . . . . .

"A boy is a creature of odd feelings. I was, I really
believe, in spite of my secret self-disgust, a little flattered to
have the attention of these big fellows. I remember particularly
a moment of pleasure caused by the praise of Crawshaw--you remember
Crawshaw major, the son of Crawshaw the composer?--who said it was
the best lie he had ever heard. But at the same time there was a
really painful undertow of shame at telling what I felt was indeed
a sacred secret. That beast Fawcett made a joke about the girl in
green--."