"I heard what you said to father," she went on, "and if you haven't anything better to say to me, I'll go back."
Davey gazed at her. He gazed as though he had never seen her before. She seemed another creature, nothing like the ragged little urchin who had climbed trees with him and ridden to school straddle-legged behind him; nothing like the sedate housewife his mother had made of her, either.
Deirdre stared at him too, as though he were quite different from the Davey she had known. A shy smile quivered on her lips. She plucked nervously at trails of the scarlet-runners which overhung the bank, and put the end of a runner between her teeth and chewed the stalk.
Davey saw that her lips were as scarlet as the flowers that, like broken-winged butterflies, hung at the end of the trail.
He slid off his horse and stood facing her. His limbs were trembling.
"What's the matter?" she asked, a little distress creeping into her voice.
Davey's face was tense and colourless.
To the trouble which had surprised him that day, a strange soft thrill was added when she put the runner stalk with its scarlet flowers between her teeth. It struck him with a strange pang that Deirdre was beautiful, that her lips were the same colour as the flowers hanging near them.
It was all translated, this emotion of his, in the shamed, shy smile that came into his face as he stared at her.
Deirdre understood well enough.