went out except to show their virgin forest to a visitor. M. Des Boys dabbled in painting.
It was morning, and the wood was cool, still damp with dew. Through the thickly woven beech branches the sunlight fell on the stiff holly leaves and lit them up like flowers. A little chestnut tree, that had sprouted all awry, raised its twisted head towards the light. Near-by stood a wild cherry, into which the sparrows darted, twittering and alarmed. A jay passed like a flash of blue lightning. The wind crept in beneath the trees, stirring the bracken that darkened and lightened at its passage. A wounded bee fell on Rose's skirt.
"Poor bee! One of his wings is unhooked. I'll try and put it right."
"Take care," said M. Hervart. "It will sting. Animals never believe that you mean well by them. To them everyone's an enemy."
"True," said Rose, shaking off the bee. "Your bugs will eat him and that will be a happy ending. Everyone's an enemy."
Rose had spoken so bitterly that M. Hervart was quite distressed. He brought his face close to hers as her big straw hat would permit, and whispered:
