XIX
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 trunk 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.
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