“Yes, those, where they hang over the brook. They are ruddy like new blood freshening under the skin. Look, tassels of crimson and gold!” She pointed to the dusty hazel catkins mingled with the alder on her bosom. Then she began to quote Christina Rossetti’s “A Birthday.”
“I’m glad you came to take me a walk,” she continued—“Doesn’t Strelley Mill look pretty? Like a group of orange and scarlet fungi in a fairy picture. Do you know, I haven’t been, no, not for quite a long time. Shall we call now?”
“The daylight will be gone if we do. It is half past five—more! I saw him—the son—the other morning.”
“Where?”
“He was carting manure—I made haste by.”
“Did he speak to you—did you look at him?”
“No, he said nothing. I glanced at him—he’s just the same, brick colour—stolid. Mind that stone—it rocks. I’m glad you’ve got strong boots on.”
“Seeing that I usually wear them——”
She stood poised a moment on a large stone, the fresh spring brook hastening towards her, deepening, sidling round her.
“You won’t call and see them, then?” she asked.