Note 3 — Chapter XIII · THE LAST GRAINS IN THE SAND-GLASS

But at least he could not do that, for I had never given it to Will of Avondale. No, nor even counted him playmate and “little lover,” as in the old childish days I had called Larry, when Maud and Sholto strolled afield picking forget-me-nots or star-gazing at the constellations, as if the sky of one night were different from that of another.[3]