"I was not referring to the wood," said the poet, hardily.
Miss Gerald bent over a foxglove rising gracefully over the bracken:
"Aren't they lovely?" she asked, showing the poet a handful of the purple flowers.
"You came out to gather flowers?"
"Why, no. I came to look for my pupil."
"Surely not again a truant?"
"I am afraid so."
"It is hard to believe."
"And I stopped in my search to gather some of these. After all, it isn't much good looking for a child in a wood, is it?"