"Will you listen, Hazel?" he repeated.
"Yes," she said, reluctant, half defiant. "Tell me now, whilst I feed the birds," she added imperiously.
"No," Paul rejoined stoutly, "it is much too important and—and serious. I will wait till you have finished."
Although the girl had practically completed her task when he came upon her, the last few crumbs were scattered, one by one, from the small yet seemingly inexhaustible stock still left. And then, when he thought the time had come, when all seemed ready, Hazel sought to fix his attention upon a hundred-and-one different objects—this plant, that tree, the brightness of a pet squirrel's eyes, the bushiness of another's tail, the soft grey plumage of the wood pigeon. Would Paul like one on his shoulder? She believed she could coax it there. Paul was soon nearly frantic, fearful of offending or scaring her, divided between risking the one or the other, torn with indecision, yet determined throughout not to let so fitting an opportunity slip by ungrasped. Hazel had no faintest clue as to how he was minded: she only knew that he was grave again, and, though she had not so much as given one glance at his face, she knew his eyes to be serious and deep and unfathomable. In a word, he was in that tiresome mood that somehow troubled her. She must divert his attention from herself, she must distract his mind with all manner of interests; and these the wood amply afforded.
"Look at that green caterpillar," she exclaimed. "We might——"
"Hazel," Paul said desperately, interrupting her, "will you listen? It is so important—to me."
"You said 'serious' before," Hazel rejoined, a trifle flippantly. Her back was turned upon him. She began busily to collect fir-cones.
"I want to tell you that I love you," the young man said at last, simply and quietly. "I love you, Hazel."
"Thank you," Hazel said in polite good faith, half turning a flushed cheek toward him. "It is—it is very good of you. But if you don't mind, try not to feel serious about it. Of course I like to hear you say it—just once; but I knew it, I—I mean I always felt you were fond of me."
"Child, child," Paul murmured. Then aloud: "Are you fond of me?"