They climbed a gate into the park. Ordinarily there was a view, from the cart track they followed, out over country which stretched to the first Welsh hills. But this day a permanence of rain softened what was near, and half hid by catching the soft light all that was far, in the way a veil will obscure, yet enhance the beauty of a well- remembered face or, in a naked body so covered, sharpen the sight. In such a way this stretch of country he knew so well was made the nearer to him by rain.

They threw wet sticks to see who could send these amongst the deer that moved off faster than they came up, merging ahead until these heraldic cattle were a part of the mist, unidentifiable in rain. Christopher was light-hearted. His father had regrets. He wished it had all been less, as a man can search to find he knows not what behind a netted brilliant skin, the eyes of a veiled face, as he can also go with his young son parted from him by the years that are between, from her by the web of love, or from remembered country by the weather, in the sadness of not finding.

They were now on top of a hill which was not long. They came to where there was a hollow. Sunk in the middle of this, level with the turf, they found a big domed triangle of concrete. There was an iron door, padlocked fast. It might have been one of those houses in which ice used to be kept against the summer, when we had hard winters. In these days it was more probably a cistern to supply the manor house with water, but, speaking down to what he took to be his level of romance, Roe, in a roundabout way, said it was a secret, that he had never shewn anyone before, this was where the hobgoblins lived, no one had ever known this place but him. Christopher said, “but nanny knows, Rosemary knows, oh everybody knows.” Roe said he’d had no idea of that. Christopher made out he was sorry but it was so, and he did not think fairies lived there. When he was asked how he could tell, all he would say was that he knew he did not think they did.