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We seated ourselves in some comfort on the soft sand, our backs against the boulders, sipping cave-water and smoking elm-root cigars. It seemed altogether as if one were back in civilization, talking to a genial host. "Yes," said the Cave-man, and he spoke, as it were, in a large and patronizing way. "I generally let my wife trot about as she likes in the daytime.
Oh, yes, about fifteen per cent, I think. Some say it soaks all through the soil of this State. Sit down and be comfortable, and, say if you hear the woman coming just slip your mug behind that stone out of sight. Do you mind? Now, try one of these elm-root cigars. Oh, pick a good one there are lots of them!"
It was one March evening six mouths later, one of those warm, still, sunshot-and-grey March evenings when elm-root are blue with violets and the air is full of the faint indeterminate scent of tree flowers, that Lawrence brought his bride home to Farringay.
Here they ran along the trunks of the big trees, peeped into the saw-pit, and the men were away at dinner and this was a favourite play place of every boy within miles made themselves a see-saw with a fresh cut, sweet-smelling pine plank and an elm-root. "What a ripping place!" said Mabel, breathless on the seesaw's end. "I believe I like this better than pretending games or even magic."
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