The air was warm and sweet in the little lane, remote from the sea,
which led them along their last walk. On either side the white path was
a grassy margin thickly woven with pink convolvuli. Some of the reckless
little flowers, so gay and evanescent, had climbed the trunks of an old
yew tree, and were looking up pertly at their rough host.

Helena walked along, watching the flowers, and making fancies out of
them.

'Who called them "fairies' telephones"?' she said to herself. 'They are
tiny children in pinafores. How gay they are! They are children dawdling
along the pavement of a morning. How fortunate they are! See how they
take a wind-thrill! See how wide they are set to the sunshine! And when
they are tired, they will curl daintily to sleep, and some fairies in
the dark will gather them away. They won't be here in the morning,
shrivelled and dowdy ... If only we could curl up and be gone, after
our day....' She looked at Siegmund. He was walking moodily beside her.

'It is good when life holds no anti-climax,' she said.

'Ay!' he answered. Of course, he could not understand her meaning.

She strayed into the thick grass, a sturdy white figure that walked with
bent head, abstract, but happy.

'What is she thinking?' he asked himself. 'She is sufficient to
herself--she doesn't want me. She has her own private way of communing
with things, and is friends with them.' 'The dew has been very heavy,' she said, turning, and looking up at him
from under her brows, like a smiling witch.