At the far end of the garden, looking over the
wall, down into that narrow passage which lay between it and the back of
another garden he squeezed her arm suddenly and said:
"Well, Gyp, what sort of a time?"
The question had come at last.
"Oh, rather lovely--in some ways." But she did not look at him, nor he
at her. "See, Dad! The cats have made quite a path there!"
Winton bit his lips and turned from the wall. The thought of that fellow
was bitter within him. She meant to tell him nothing, meant to keep up
that lighthearted look--which didn't deceive him a bit!
"Look at my crocuses! It's really spring today!"
It was. Even a bee or two had come. The tiny leaves had a transparent
look, too thin as yet to keep the sunlight from passing through them.
The purple, delicate-veined crocuses, with little flames of orange
blowing from their centres, seemed to hold the light as in cups. A wind,
without harshness, swung the boughs; a dry leaf or two still rustled
round here and there. And on the grass, and in the blue sky, and on the
almond-blossom was the first spring brilliance. Gyp clasped her hands
behind her head.
"Lovely--to feel the spring!"
And Winton thought: 'She's changed!' She had softened, quickened--more
depth of colour in her, more gravity, more sway in her body, more
sweetness in her smile. But--was she happy?
A voice said:
"Ah, what a pleasure!"
The fellow had slunk up like the great cat he was.
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