Miss Naylor continued to peer across the rosebush; but her thin face, close to the glistening leaves, had become oddly soft, pink, and girlish. At a deeper breath from Greta, the little lady put down her basket, and began to pace the lawn, followed dubiously by Scruff. It was thus that Christian came on them.
Miss Naylor slipped her arm into the girl's and though she made no sound, her lips kept opening and shutting, like the beak of a bird contemplating a worm.
Christian spoke first:
“Miss Naylor, I want to tell you please—”
“Oh, my dear! I know; Greta has been in the confessional before you.” She gave the girl's arm a squeeze. “Isn't it a lovely day? Did you ever see 'Five Fingers' look so beautiful?” And she pointed to the great peaks of the Funffingerspitze glittering in the sun like giant crystals.
“I like them better with clouds about them.”
“Well,” agreed Miss Naylor nervously, “they certainly are nicer with clouds about them. They look almost hot and greasy, don't they.... My dear!” she went on, giving Christian's arm a dozen little squeezes, “we all of us—that is, we all of us—”
Christian turned her eyes away.
“My dear,” Miss Naylor tried again, “I am far—that is, I mean, to all of us at some time or another—and then you see—well—it is hard!”
Christian kissed the gloved hand resting on her arm. Miss Naylor bobbed her head; a tear trickled off her nose.