Just below it slept a cool, green pool, deep, delicious--a swimming pool such as dreams are made of.
If there were no one about--but there was some one about.

Further down the slope, and stretched at full length upon it, lay a small boy.

Near the small boy lay a packet of school books.
The wayfarer's lips relaxed in an appreciative smile.
"Little boy," he called, somewhat hoarsely on account of the dust in his throat, "little boy, can you tell me how far it is from here to Wimbleton ?" Apparently the little boy was deaf.
The questioner raised his voice, "or if you can oblige me with the exact distance to Wombleton," he went on earnestly, "that will do quite as well." No answer, civil or otherwise, from the youth by the pool.

Only a convulsive wiggle intended to cover the undefended position of the school books.
The traveller's smile broadened but he made no further effort toward sociability.

Neither did he go away.