The morning sunlight and the cool wind made walking pleasant. That unkempt bird, whom we have called Magnanimity, was taking out quite a young bird for a little exercise. They saw Maurice and Marjorie walking together.
“Those are men,” said the young bird. “Bless your heart—I’ve seen lots of ’em.”
“Just drop that,” said Magnanimity, sternly. “There’s nothing more sickening than to hear a mere chick like yourself setting up to be a complete bird of the world. Fancy taking any notice of contemptible, ugly men!”
“That young she-man,” said the mere chick, “isn’t at all ugly. I often wish I were a man.”
“You’d soon wish you were a bird again,” retorted Magnanimity. “Are you aware that men can’t fly, or lay eggs, or talk our language, or do anything really worth doing? Are you aware that we old birds lead them the very devil of a life?”
“How do you do it?” asked the mere chick, quite unable to keep the wonder and admiration out of the tone of its voice.
“Why, we mock at ’em—sneer at ’em till they can’t bear themselves.”
Marjorie and Maurice walked on, talking of indifferent things. They climbed the hill, resting occasionally in the shade of the plantations that grew on its sides. They reached the summit at last, a solitary place where the ruined chapel of St. Margaret stood in a little deserted grave-yard. The wind was fresh and cool. They could see far away into the distance; they could see the river winding along down the valley, until it was a mere thread of silver; they could see the smoke curling up from low, red-roofed cottages and farm-buildings, scattered here and there. Maurice stretched himself at full length on the grass, and endeavoured to light a cigarette. There was just enough wind to blow a match out. There always is.
“Now then, Marjorie, you had a dream last night.”
“Yes!”