“They taste better,” said Fiora, the tall girl in the scarlet blouse, “because we are stealing them.” And she licked her red lips with satisfaction.
“There must be better ones higher up,” said a fourth, greedily, standing with her hands on her broad hips and her head thrown back.
“Let us see,” responded Fiora.
Again she caught hold of the drooping branch, drew herself up, and in an instant the thick foliage hid her from sight. Her companions, half-smothered with laughter, besought her to return.
“Oh, if you are seen!”
“Catch!” cried Fiora.
A rain of soft bodies fell, thumping them about the shoulders. Through the parted leaves an impudent face looked down, framed like a young faun’s in living green.
“I am going higher—I am going to look into the garden!”
“Oh! Oh!” in frightened and delighted chorus. “You dare not!”
“Listen, my children,” said Fiora, condescendingly. “They say no woman has ever seen this garden. Well, I have a great mind to be the first!”