They crossed the slip of meadow among the tall grasses and, “There,” said Aubrey, pointing, with a faint smile, “there they are!”
“How sweet!” said Miss Pickering, with her serene emphasis. They stood to look.
“Do you know,” said Aubrey, wondering at himself, but he felt upborne, “that I find they look like you—the pink ones.”
“Really?” She smiled now, turning her calm, blue eyes upon him. “That’s very flattering.”
“No, no; not flattering; not at all flattering,” said Aubrey. “Not at all, not at all,” he repeated under his breath. He could say no more just then. They walked on, his heart in a flutter.
“Have you ever heard a willow-wren, Miss Pickering?” he asked suddenly.
“A willow-wren? I don’t think so. I don’t know much about birds.”
“It is usually singing in the wood at this hour. Would you care to come and see if we can hear it?”
“I’d love to. I wish you’d teach me all about birds,” said Miss Pickering.
His heart was thumping now. They entered the copse. It seemed to him, as they passed them, that the foxgloves were tall angels set about Paradise and welcoming him there. It was very still among the trees. Miss Pickering walked lightly beside him. She, too, looked like an angel. They reached a clearing, where an old fallen log lay, and here they sat down. “We shall hear it, I think,” said Aubrey, “if we sit here quietly.”