"More life." There was a moment's pause. Then he said butterflies were no more "idle" than bees and birds. Besides attending to their more immediate affairs they were pollen-bringers.
It was such solemn talk for butterflies. I told him the two sulphur yellows reeling in the sunshine were laughing at him. "'Ends of life' indeed! They simply love bright colour and things that smell sweet...."
"Of course they love them!" Then he said something that sank deeper than any single sentence I ever heard: "Hating never created anything; all life comes from lovers."
At the moment that great saying only frightened me. And the strange thing was it seemed to frighten him.
We were very still for a moment. I thought even the little music of the honey bees had slackened. I and all the world waited—holding breath.
Then a gust of wind veered round the corner, and Eric turned up his collar. He asked if I wasn't cold. I was anything but cold. But I had noticed that after his long hours of motionless concentration indoors, Eric was very sensitive to chill. So I put off planting the rest of the thyme, and I took Eric up to the morning-room.
"What is he going to tell me?" I asked myself on the way. And though I asked, I thought I knew.
CHAPTER XXIII
ERIC'S SECRET
My sister and I breakfasted in the morning-room in those days, and we always had a fire for Bettina's sake on chilly mornings.
In the back of my mind I was hoping Eric's complaint of cold was an excuse. If my first impression had been right, if he had something to tell me, he would tell it better indoors. I should hear it better, sitting beside him.