“Not for any one—anything one loved,” said Ruth very low, but with flushing cheeks.
“Then,” said Cheriton, “there would be no other self left to sacrifice.”
Ruth was startled. Rupert had never so answered her thoughts, had never given her quite such a look.
Cherry paused and turned round towards her with a desperate impulse urging him to speak, her face shining with enthusiasm giving him sudden courage.
“Ah!” exclaimed Ruth, springing across on to a very unsteady stone, “you are getting too serious! I declare, there’s a white butterfly, the first for the year. And look—oh, look, Cherry, isn’t that bit of gorse pretty against the sky? It’s too bad to discuss abstract questions at a picnic on a spring day.”
Cheriton stood still for a moment. He heard the rush of the water, he saw the shine of the sun, his eyes followed the butterfly as it fluttered up to the bit of yellow gorse, he could see Ruth smiling and graceful, beckoning to him to follow her; the glamour and dazzle had passed, and the day was like any other fine day now.
“I did not mean to discuss abstract questions,” he said, with a touch of offence.
“Ah! but you were getting very deep! Come, don’t be cross, Cherry; you look exactly like Jack at this minute, and you can’t make your eyebrows meet, so don’t try.”
“Poor Jack, you are very hard on him,” said Cherry, recovering himself. “Will you have a bit of the gorse for your hat, if I cut all the prickles off?”
“If you cut all the prickles off, what will you leave?” said Ruth.