"But what, after all, does an understanding of rhetoric amount to? What has it done for me?" murmured Peter, answering the glance. And then, as the boy still lingered before them, "I'll go with you, Ted. I must make my bow to Sheila before I leave."
The back garden belied its humble name. The kitchen windows opened upon it, it is true, but they did not discourage its prideful aspect. Indeed, it might just as well have been a front garden, for it had never been the shelter of the useful cabbage and its homely relations. The young grass was close-cropped with the same care that had been bestowed upon the front lawn, and simple, gay flowers flourished in bright beds and along the smooth walk. Toward the end of the garden, and as if for a charming climax, several cherry trees shook blossoming branches to the spring wind.
And beneath those trees lay Sheila, her eyes lifted to their bloom, a still, enraptured little figure, quite unconscious that intruders were drawing near.
At sight of her, Peter halted and laid a staying hand on Ted's arm. "Don't speak to her!" he whispered.
And so the two stood and looked at her, and yet she did not stir nor grow aware of their presence.
She was a slender little shape, lying there on the fresh grass—a thin child, with a pale face and black hair braided away from it; a child who was not actually pretty, nor, to the eyes of the casual observer, in any other way remarkable. But to Peter she seemed touched, for the moment, with the glamour of enchantment, this small dreamer communing with her fays.
"Don't speak to her!" he said again, as Ted moved restively. "She's as far away as if she were in a different world," he added softly, and only to himself.
But Ted, overhearing, nodded comprehendingly. "Sheila does make you feel like that sometimes, even if she is standing right by you all the time. She's queer—Sheila is. But," and he spoke boastfully, though still in the cautious undertone Peter had used, "but I always call her back!"
Peter looked down at him, at the frank, wholesome, unimaginative face, fatuous now with the vanity of power.
"I always call her back!" the boy repeated proudly.