At the edge of the wood the bluebells had flowed over into the field and stood there like flood-water. But they were fading now. Clara strayed up to them. He wandered after her. The bluebells pleased him.
"Look how they've come out of the wood!" he said.
Then she turned with a flash of warmth and of gratitude.
"Yes," she smiled.
His blood beat up.
"It makes me think of the wild men of the woods, how terrified they would be when they got breast to breast with the open space."
"Do you think they were?" she asked.
"I wonder which was more frightened among old tribes—those bursting out of their darkness of woods upon all the space of light, or those from the open tip-toeing into the forests."
"I should think the second," she answered.
"Yes, you do feel like one of the open space sort, trying to force yourself into the dark, don't you?"