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But in the spring of nineteen-two something stirred in him, something watched and waited; with a subtle agitation, a vague and delicate excitement, it exulted and aspired. The sensation, or whatever it was, had as yet no separate existence of its own.
He found it in the fact he had discovered that her companions called her by absurd and tender names; Winky, and even Winks, they called her. That was in the autumn of nineteen-one; and he was finding it all over again now in the spring of nineteen-two.
But these were the deeds of his boyhood, and in nineteen-two Ransome looked back on them with contempt. Follies they were, things a silly kid does; and it wasn't by those monkey tricks that a fellow developed his physique.
"Well, it isn't," he said. "I like it. But look here if you hate it " "Me?" She said it with a simple, naïve amazement. "Yes, you." He was almost brutal. "But I don't. What an idea!" "Well, if you don't, that settles it. Don't it?" And it did. It was the night of the Grand Display of the spring of nineteen-two.
So perfect, in this spring of nineteen-two, was the harmony of Ransome's being that the pulse of the unborn thing was one with all his other pulses; it was one, indistinguishably, with the splendor of life, the madness of running, and the joy he took in his own remarkable performances on the horizontal bar.
She comes near, lowers her head, reads the date and whispers: "Nineteen-two; it's been dead for thirteen years it's a long time. No, it isn't a long time I don't know what it ought to be. Here's another read it." I go on denuding the letters. We quickly find out what a mistake it was to say we know them by heart.
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