Stafford looked up sharply.
"I don't like it," said Darby. "The slightest accident in that hole under the rock and——"
His mouth twisted.
"She just takes her own way in everything," he went on. "Matilda will ask the angels' advice about her wings in Heaven; she never gave an order in her life, and Dearest George is so obsessed by his authority that the girl never takes any notice of him. She has no business to bathe at all in October, it's too cold; and what she meant by learning to hold her breath."
Basil Stafford jumped lightly over the narrow pool landing with a slight slip and stagger.
"It's ... a fine thing to have one's limbs," said Darby gently. "A very fine thing, Stafford, to be fit and able to move as a man should."
Stafford said nothing—it was the only thing to say. The unmarred side of Darby's face was turned towards him, lean, fine in its lines, with cleanly-cut features—the face of a man who had power to feel and to enjoy life.
"I'll be only one of many after this war," grunted Darby after a pause; "but, Lord, if I could have lost myself for my country, out there!"
Basil Stafford sighed uneasily, flushing a little.
"We are going to have five-o'clock tea out here at four," announced Gheena, appearing suddenly. "Mama has got callers—the Bradys from the Rectory, with a right-minded cousin, and the O'Haras from Crom Rectory,—and they are all going to knit." She flicked out her own knitting as she spoke. "So Phil is making a fire. He always lets it go out."