They had scarcely reached the opposite end of the little wood, when with a sudden cry of excitement and a quick sinking on her knees, the girl turned to him with a young thrush in her hand. It was big enough to be capable of flying and, as she held it in her soft white fingers, it struggled desperately and uttered little cries. She held it tightly in one hand, and with the other caressed its ruffled feathers, looking sideways at her companion, as she did so, with dreamy, half-shut, voluptuous eyes.
“Little darling,” she whispered. And then, with a breathless gasp in her voice,—“Kiss its head, Mr. Dangelis. It can’t get away.” He stooped over her as she held the bird up to him, and if in obeying her he brushed with his lips fingers as well as feathers, the accident was not one he could bring himself to regret.
“It can’t get away,” she repeated, in a low soft murmur.
The bird did, however, get away, a moment afterwards, and went fluttering off through the brushwood, with that delicious, awkward violence, which young thrushes share with so many other youthful things.
In the deep ditch which they now had to cross, the artist caught sight of a solitary half-faded primrose, the very last, perhaps, of its delicate tribe. He showed it to Gladys, gently smoothing away, as he did so, the heavy leaves which seemed to be overshadowing its last days of life.
The girl pushed him aside impetuously, and plucking the faded flower deliberately thrust it into her mouth.
“I love eating them,” she cried, “I used to do it when I was ever so little and I do it still when I am alone. You’ve no idea how nice they taste!”
At that moment they heard the sound of the church clock striking six.
“Quick!” cried Gladys. “Mr. Clavering will be waiting. He’ll be cross if I’m too dreadfully late.”