"Th-thank you," said Chrysos, unwinding her arms from the baronet's neck as the bull came trotting up on the other side of the fence and bellowed at them. Not the slightest atom of fright remained, only a wild-rose tint in her cheeks. She considered the bull, absently, patted a tendril of hair into symmetry; but the breeze loosened it again, and she let it blow across her cheek.
"We should have been in South Africa together," said Sir Charles. "We manœuvre beautifully as a unit."
The girl laughed, then spying more wild strawberries—the quest of which had beguiled her into hostile territory—dropped on her knees and began to explore.
The berries were big and ripe—huge drops of crimson honey hanging heavily, five to a stalk. The meadow-grass was red with them, and Sir Charles, without more ado, got down on all-fours and started to gather them with all the serious and thorough determination characteristic of that warrior.
"You're not to eat any, yet," said Chrysos.
"Of course not; they're for your breakfast I take it," he said.
"For yours."
He straightened up on his knees: "For mine?"
"Certainly."
"You didn't go wandering afield at this hour to pick wild strawberries for my breakfast!" he said incredulously.