‘Those tulips are like you,’ she said, her eyes and mouth, all her glowing face, coaxing and appealing.
And suddenly the girl gave a little laugh, looking with soft eyes first at Jennifer, then away, shyly and deprecatingly, as who should say: ‘The idea! Me like a tulip! Well, you are a one—Daft ...’ but gratified and amused all the same.
‘I shall always think of you when I see tulips like that,’ said Jennifer. ‘Good-bye!’
‘Good-bye, Miss....’ She smiled, almost mischievously this time, and hurried on with her tray.
‘She was quite human,’ said Jennifer. ‘I wonder if she’s got a lover or if she’s longing for one, or if she’s been jilted, or what.... What makes her all shadowy and tight inside herself?’
She stood looking after the girl, as if meditating going back to ask her.
How Jennifer struck sparks from ordinary people! She knew how to live. To be with her was to meet adventure; to see, round every corner, the bush become the burning bush.
In a little while she would have forgotten the girl whose problem was now so urgent and exciting; but you yourself would always remember,—seeing it all dramatically, seeing it as a quiet story, hearing it as an unknown tune: making of it a water colour painting in gay foolish colours, or an intricate pencil pattern of light and shadow.
They left the Orchard.
‘I think,’ said Jennifer, ‘we will never come here again.’