But instead of asking if he would be back to tea she said: “I wonder if the swallows are building again in our dove house.”
“Do they build there?” asked Richard, and the whole expression of his face altered at her words.
“Yes, they have a nest on the joist. Father leaves the top half of the door open for them and they fly in and out. They are the prettiest of the birds; my favourites, for no birds exceed them in loveliness of colouring: the steel-blue back, the crimson throat and the white belly. The flight of the swallow is more beautiful than that of any other bird, but this pair are prettiest when they sit side by side on the rails outside the dove house. Their spirits always seem to me a little low: she moves one wing and then the other, as though she were shrugging her little shoulders, and then, suddenly, he bursts into song. Do you know the swallows’ song?”
“No,” said Richard. “I have never heard a swallow sing.” He sat down and buried his face in his hands, and repeated in tones of utter wretchedness: “No, I have never heard a swallow sing.”
“He has the clear note of a contralto; not loud or defiant, nor yet feeble, but full of love, subdued because he can never forget that the world is full of cruelty and unkindness.”
Ginette broke in with a question as to what Anne had said.
Richard told her, and the French girl smiled wearily.
“In England it is only the swallows apparently which have discovered such platitudes.” Then she added: “Why is she staying?”
“It appears we invited her to tea,” answered Richard in a low voice.
There was the sound of a heavy tramp on the stairs and then a knock. Richard stood up and went to the door. Anne looked across at Ginette and saw that she was gazing at her with a strange expression.