'You're awfully becoming,' he stammered. 'I say—I'm jolly glad I saw that yellow wagtail and followed it. I believe it flew back into your heart.'
Her smile broadened into a laugh at once. It was impossible to be angry with such a youth. 'You undergraduates,' she said, 'are the most ridiculous people I've ever known. But I shan't let you go now I've got you. You're fairly caught.'
'Rather,' said Wimble with unfeigned delight.
'Then you'd better come with me and see father at once,' she went on. 'You can explain yourself to him—about the wagtail.'
'Rather,' he repeated, though with less enthusiasm. It was the only word that he could think of; and he added, 'presently.'
She looked him up and down. 'It's best, I think.' And her laughter was now friendly.
'I will,' he repeated, 'I'll go anywhere with you. I admit I'm caught. Do you think he'll be very nasty to me?'
But he scarcely knew what he was saying all the time, for his one desire was not to lose sight of her now that he had found her. Her face, her laughter, her singing voice, her attitude, everything about her made him gasp. He already thought of her in bird-terms. He remembered the redwing, delicate thrush, that comes to England from the North and is off again too soon—of countless birds that haunt our fields with transient beauty, then vanish suddenly, afraid to stay and rest. An anxious pang transfixed his heart. Any moment she might spread big yellow wings and leave him fluttering on the ground. 'If I've done any damage,' he added, 'I'll put it right. It was worth it, anyhow.' But he saw that she laughed with him now, not at him, and he began to smile himself. She was adorable. 'I'll swear she's a birdy girl,' the thought flashed through him.
'If you'll turn your back a moment, please,' he heard her saying, 'I'll put my shoes and stockings on again. There's no good paddling any more with you here.'
'Rather not,' he said, and ran down to fetch them for her.