And they had walked a very little way when he stopped and said: 'Don't you call that beautiful?' and, leaning against the same tree, Morton and Mildred looked into the dreamy depth of a summer wood. The trunks of the young elms rose straight, and through the pale leafage the sunlight quivered, full of the impulse of the morning. The ground was thick with grass and young shoots…. Something ran through the grass, paused, and then ran again.
'What is that?' Mildred asked.
'A squirrel, I think… yes, he's going up that tree.'
'How pretty he is, his paws set against the bark.'
'Come this way and we shall see him better.'
But they caught no further sight of the squirrel, and Morton asked
Mildred the time.
'A quarter-past ten,' she said, glancing at the tiny watch which she wore in a bracelet.
'Then we must be moving on. I ought to be at work at half-past. One can't work more than a couple of hours in this light.'
They passed out of the wood and crossed an open space where rough grass grew in patches. Mildred opened her parasol.
'You asked me just now if I ever went to England. Do you intend to go back, or do you intend to live in France?'