To Mark the country was as remote as Paradise, and at first
he was inclined to regard the question as rhetorical to which a
conventional reply was expected. If anybody had asked him how he should
like to go to Heaven, he would have answered that he should like to go
to Heaven very much. Cows, sheep, saints, angels, they were all equally
unreal outside a picture book.
"I would like to go to the country very much," he said. "And I would
like to go to the Zoological Gardens very much. Perhaps we can go there
soon, can we, mother?"
"We can't go there if we're in the country."
Mark stared at her.
"But really go in the country?"
"Yes, darling, really go."
"Oh, mother," and immediately he checked his enthusiasm with a sceptical
"when?"
"Next Monday."
"And shall I see cows?"
"Yes."
"And donkeys? And horses? And pigs? And goats?"
To every question she nodded.
"Oh, mother, I will be good," he promised of his own accord. "And can I
take my grenadiers?"
"You can take everything you have, darling."
"Will Dora come?" He did not inquire about his father.
"No."
"Just you and me?"
She nodded, and Mark flung his arms round her neck to press upon her
lips a long fragrant kiss, such a kiss as only a child can give.
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