Harriett and Robin Lethbridge were walking up Black’s Lane. The hedges were a white bridal froth of cow’s parsley. Every now and then she swerved aside to pick the red campion.
He spoke suddenly. “Do you know what a dear little face you have, Hatty? It’s so clear and still and it behaves so beautifully.”
“Does it?”
She thought of Prissie’s face, dark and restless, never clear, never still.
“You’re not a bit like what I expected. Prissie doesn’t know what you are. You don’t know yourself.”
“I know what she is.”
His mouth’s uneven quiver beat in and out like a pulse.
“Don’t talk to me about Prissie!”
Then he got it out. He tore it out of himself. He loved her.
“Oh, Robin——” Her fingers loosened in her dismay; she went dropping red campion.