With a demure response Hazel moved a little away, soon becoming interested in a cluster of flowers at her feet, Shepherd's Eye, that seemed to gaze up at her in blue wonder and sympathy. She proceeded to pluck the small, starlike blossoms, her brothers and Paul meanwhile sitting upon or leaning against the mossgrown boundary fence, in several and varied poses of ease and comfort, engaging languidly in such broken and disjointed conversation as befitted the heat of the noonday.
"What is the name of that little flower?" Paul's voice broke in upon Hazel's musing. He had followed her unawares, and made as if to take one tiny blue star from her bunch.
But Hazel pressed upon him the whole miniature posy, in frank generosity.
"Take them all," she said. "Are they not sweet? They are called Shepherd's Eye—they grow mostly over there, in the meadow."
"Shepherd's Eye!" Paul said, gratefully accepting the gift. "But here are red ones, exactly like the blue."
"I call them Sad Shepherd's Eye," she returned. "They are eyes that must have been weeping bitterly for hours. I only care for the happy, blue ones."
"They are prettiest, certainly," Paul rejoined; "but I should like one or two of the red ones, to remind me of your pretty fancy. Let me gather them; you will make yourself hot and tired."
But Hazel disclaimed all fatigue, and was presently tying together some of the tiny red blossoms with a wisp of tough grass.
"When are you two coming?" Gerald called. "I say, Charteris, come along home to lunch. The mater will be glad to see you."
Paul looked at Hazel. "May I?" he asked diffidently. "Mrs. Le Mesurier may——."