He might have got on faster if he had not come to her with nearly every bunch he cut at first, and when he began to deny himself this pleasure he stopped to admire an idea of hers.
“Well, that's charming—making them into bouquets.”
“Yes, isn't it?” she cried delightedly, holding a bunch of the berries up at arm's-length to get the effect.
“Ah, but you must have some of this fern and this tall grass to go with it. Why, it's sweet-grass—the sweet-grass of the Indian baskets!”
“Is it?” She looked up at him. “And do you think that the mixture would be better than the modest simplicity of the berries, with a few leaves of the same?”
“No; you're right; it wouldn't,” he said, throwing away his ferns. “But you'll want something to tie the stems with; you must use the grass.” He left that with her, and went back to his bushes. He added, from beyond a little thicket, as if what he said were part of the subject, “I was afraid you wouldn't like my skipping about there on the rocks, doing the coloured uncle.”
“Like it?”
“I mean—I—you thought it undignified—trivial—”
She said, after a moment: “It was very funny; and people do all sorts of things at picnics. That's the pleasure of it, isn't it?”
“Yes, it is; but I know you don't always like that kind of thing.”