“I am not afraid now; Scruff and I sat up all night, to catch the morning—I—think it was fun; and O Chris!” she ended with a rueful gleam in her eyes, “I told it.”
Christian hugged her.
“Come—quick! There is nobody about. Are those the pictures?”
Each supporting an end, the girls carried the bundle downstairs, and set out with their corpse-like burden along the wall-path between the river and the vines.
XIX
Hidden by the shade of rose-bushes Greta lay stretched at length, cheek on arm, sleeping the sleep of the unrighteous. Through the flowers the sun flicked her parted lips with kisses, and spilled the withered petals on her. In a denser islet of shade, Scruff lay snapping at a fly. His head lolled drowsily in the middle of a snap, and snapped in the middle of a loll.
At three o'clock Miss Naylor too came out, carrying a basket and pair of scissors. Lifting her skirts to avoid the lakes of water left by the garden hose, she stopped in front of a rose-bush, and began to snip off the shrivelled flowers. The little lady's silvered head and thin, brown face sustained the shower of sunlight unprotected, and had a gentle dignity in their freedom.
Presently, as the scissors flittered in and out of the leaves, she, began talking to herself.
“If girls were more like what they used to be, this would not have happened. Perhaps we don't understand; it's very easy to forget.” Burying her nose and lips in a rose, she sniffed. “Poor dear girl! It's such a pity his father is—a—”