"Some nonsense. George tried to kiss her."
"Did he?" There was a flat tone in Miriam's voice.
"And she hit him, and now John thinks he's wicked."
"So he is." She was hardly aware of what she said, for she was hesitating between the immediate establishment of her supremacy and the punishment of George, and having decided that his punishment should include sufficient tribute, she said firmly, "I won't have anything to do with him."
"Then I'll go. Help Notya if you can."
Miriam took a step nearer. "What is she like?"
"Oh—queer."
"Then perhaps I'd rather go to George," she whispered.
"I'm halfway there already," Helen said from the door.
She slipped across the moor with the speed which came so easily to her, and her breathing had hardly quickened when she issued from the larch-wood and stood on the cobble-stones before the low white house. Already the leaves of a rose-tree by the door were budding, for in that sheltered place the sun was gathered warmly. So, too, she thought, darkness would lie closely there and rain would shoot down in thick splinters with intent to hurt. She was oppressed by a sense of concentration in this tree-lined hollow, and before she stepped across the yard she lifted and shook her shoulders to free them of the weight. She remembered one summer day when the air had been clogged by the scent of marigolds, but this was not their season, and the smell of the larches came healthfully on the winds that struggled through the trees.