"I don't know what 'rose haws' are. Do you want them—whatever they are?
I'll go and get them for you."
"I'll go, too, to see if they're worth picking. They're thorny things; you won't like them, but I do."
"You think I don't like thorny things?" he asked her as they went down the hillside, up which Ted and Ruth were now struggling. It was steep and he held out his hand to her, but she ignored it and went on with sure, light feet.
"No, I think you like them soft and rounded."
"And you prefer them prickly?"
"Prickly enough to be interesting."
They reached the scraggly rosebush, bare except for the bright red haws, their smooth hard surfaces shining in the sun. Richard got out his knife, and by dint of scratching his hands in a dozen places, succeeded in gathering quite a cluster. Then he went to work at getting rid of the thorns.
"You may like things prickly, but you'll be willing to spare a few of these," he observed.
He succeeded in time in pruning the cluster into subordination, bound them with a tough bit of dried weed which he found at his feet, and held out the bunch. "Will you do me the honour of wearing them?"
She thrust the smooth stems into the breast of her riding-coat, where they gave the last picturesque touch to her attire. "Thank you," she acknowledged somewhat tardily. "I can do no less after seeing you scarify yourself in my service. You might have put on your gloves."