“Wait for me,” said Mac, “and I’ll run up and tell them to give him some food.”
He came hurriedly back up the path, very much against his will.
There was nobody in front of the house, he went round to the kitchen. The Mousmés were there, preparing luncheon—at least, preparing to prepare it in a leisurely way.
Had they seen anyone about the house, a blind man?
No, they had seen nobody, only the poulterer, who had been with eggs an hour ago.
Had they seen a blind man last night—had a blind man called round at the kitchen to ask for food?
No; nobody had been for food to the kitchen last night, least of all a blind man.
Then Mac hurried off, and the Mousmés dropped everything to discuss the meaning of all these questions asked by the Learned One; and Pine-breeze embarked on a story about two blind men and a frog, and the fox-faced representative of the rice god, a story that put the luncheon back half an hour.
Campanula was plucking flowers when Mac returned. Just three or four with a delicate fern frond, such a charming little bouquet, a veritable work of art made in a moment with unerring taste and a few turns of her deft fingers. She made Mac bend, and fixed the tiny bouquet in his coat-lapel.
Then they pursued their way, Mac vastly perturbed in his mind.