"No; they are all starving under leaves, poor things."
"Exactly—dying game; and the self-righteous ant is counting his stores—or is it the squirrel, or the dormouse? I know something or other hoards all the summer through to prolong his useless existence."
Honor did not answer. Then her lover suddenly remembered Myles, and his forehead wrinkled for a moment.
"Of course I'm not blind, Honor," he proceeded, in an altered tone. "I've seen the change these many days, and levelled a guess at the reason. Sobersides makes me look a weakling. Unfortunately he's such a real good chap I cannot be cross with him."
"Why should you be cross with anybody?"
"That's the question. You're the answer. I'm—I'm not exactly all I was to you. Don't clamour. It's true, and you know it's true. You're so exacting, so unrestful, so grave by fits lately. And he—he's always on your tongue too. You didn't know that, but it's the case. Natural perhaps—a strong personality, and so forth—yet—yet——"
"What nonsense this is, Christopher!"
"Of course it is. But you don't laugh. You never do laugh now. My own sober conviction is this; Stapledon's in love with you and doesn't know it. Don't fall off your pony."
"Christopher! You've no right, or reason, or shadow of a shade for saying such a ridiculous thing."
"There's that in your voice convinces me at this moment."