'What has put you into this mood to-day?' she said, laughing in his face.
'To-day?' he echoed, his eyes kindling. 'Do you think a man can be privileged to be near you so often, to watch your gracious kindliness, your perfect courtesy, your varying moods, each one more charming than the last, without——'
He stopped abruptly—and then Stella, who had grown suddenly pale, replied in a voice that was a little tremulous:
'Werthester Freund, I remit all those fines; for when you speak like that I feel as lowly as Dunstan's worm.' At this they both laughed, for Stella had in due course related the worthy gardener's reflections and reminiscences on the day she had first dressed the wounds of the 'caravan' horses, as they were called. Their sores were now quite healed, and the poor animals were rapidly putting on flesh in the adjacent stock-paddock. Indeed, Sambo had been observed to kick up his heels on more than one occasion.
'Hush,' said Stella suddenly; 'there are strange bird-notes,' and sure enough there were plaintive long-drawn calls heard on the banks of the swallow-pool, in the Oolloolloo, near which the two were then standing. Stella stole on tiptoe nearer the bank, and Langdale followed her as noiselessly as he could. 'Oo-da-warra, oo-da-warra,' the groves resounded with these cries. They came from two bronze-winged pigeons on the brink of the pool. It would be difficult to name any other birds whose plumage forms a more perfect model of harmonious tints. The wings gleamed more lustrously than precious stones—dark, and pale-brown feathers, with iridescent gleams as of mother-of-pearl on the coverts; a deep, gleaming purplish tint on the breast, and the legs a perfect carmine. They drank repeatedly of the water, rested for a little, and flew on their way westward.
'Charming woodland visitors—they drank of our swallow-pool, rested in the shade of our trees, and then flew away!' said Stella wistfully. 'Did you notice,' she added, 'what soft appealing eyes they had?'
The truth was that Langdale had watched her face rather than the bronze-winged pigeons.
'Yes, they were lovely!' he answered, Jesuitical fashion—speaking of those he had seen, while his words conveyed another meaning.
'So are all pigeons' eyes!' Stella went on, encouraged by her friend's evident enthusiasm; 'very different from parrots, who have hard beady eyes—even the sweet little shell parrots, perfect sonnets as they are in emerald and pale jonquil.'
'And parrots scream rather badly, too; don't they?'