It was true. The long-lashed brown eyes were merry as nature meant them to be.
"It's peaceful and safe," she said. "When I come to the forest top I never want to go back to Bidgrass Station."
"Too bad we must, and let's pretend we don't," he said, pointing to a cluster of red-gold fruits. "Are those good to eat?"
"Too good. That's the trouble with New Cornwall."
"What do you mean?"
"Race you back to the flyer," she cried, and danced away, bare limbs twinkling in the sunlight. He floundered after.
The lunch was good and she had brought along the rest of the bottle of kresch. They sipped it seated beside the flyer while she tried to teach him New Cornish folk songs. Her small, clear singing blended with that of the birds around them.
"I catch parts of it," he said. "As an undergraduate a few years ago I studied the pre-space poets. I can read Old English, but it is strange to my ear."
"I could teach you."
"I love one wry-witted ancient named Robert Graves. How does it go: If strange things happen where she is—no, I can't recall it now."