"Laugh, my sweet sweet heart," he said. "It was your laugh I heard before I ever heard your voice, that night when I stood and looked at you and Margaret as if you were two silver people who had fallen down from the moon."
Again she sprinkled him laughing, and again he seized her hand and kissed her dabbled fingers.
"They're as cool as coral," he said. "Why are you wrinkling your nose at me? Pauline, your eyes have vanished away!"
He plucked speedwell flowers and threw them into her lap.
"When I haven't got you with me," he said, "I have to pretend that the speedwells are your eyes, and that the dog-roses are your cheeks."
"And what is my nose?" she asked, clapping her hands because she was sure he would not be able to think of any likeness.
"Your nose is incomparable," he told her: and then he bent to his paddle and made the canoe fly along so that the water fluted to right and left of the bows. Ultimately they came to an island where all the afternoon they sat under a willow that was pluming with scanty shade a thousand forget-me-nots.
Problems faded out upon the languid air, for Pauline was too well content with Guy's company to spoil the June peace. At last, however, she disengaged herself from his caressing arm and turned to him a serious and puzzled face. And when she was asking her question she knew how all the afternoon it had been fretting the back of her mind.
"Why was Mother angry with me yesterday because I came into Plashers Mead to say good-night to you?"
"Was she angry?" asked Guy.