"Did you?"
"Yes, I wished. But I won't tell."
She was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft and eerie through the larches. She looked up. White clouds were crossing the blue.
"Clouds!" she said.
"White lambs only," he replied.
A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out onto the soft yellow earth.
"Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him," said Clifford.
"Look! he's like a parson in a pulpit," said she.
She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.
"New-mown hay!" he said. "Doesn't it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!"