Spring ploughing had been proceeding for some time now, but Athalie
did not feel equal to walking cross-lots over ploughed ground, so she
let Clive go alone on tours of inspection.

But these absences were brief; he did not care to remain away from
Athalie for more than an hour at a time. So, T. Phelan ploughed on,
practically unmolested and untormented by questions, suggestions, and
advice. Which liberty was to his liking. And he loafed much.

In these latter days of May Athalie spent a great deal of her time
among her cushions and wraps on the garden seat near the fountain. On
his return from prowling about the farm Clive was sure to find her
there, reading or sewing, or curled up among her cushions in the sun
with Hafiz purring on her lap.

And she would look up at Clive out of sleepy, humorous eyes in which
glimmered a smile of greeting, or she would pretend surprise and
disapproval at his long absence of half an hour with: "Well, C.
Bailey, Junior! Where do you come from now?"

The phases of awakening spring in the garden seemed to be an endless
source of pleasure to the girl; she would sit for hours looking at the
pale lilac-tinted wistaria clusters hanging over the naked wall and
watching plundering bumble-bees scrambling from blossom to blossom.

And when at the base of the wall, the spiked buds of silvery-grey iris
unfolded, and their delicate fragrance filled the air, the exquisite
mingling of the two odours and the two shades of mauve thrilled her as
no perfume, no colour had ever affected her.