LITMIR.BIZ

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wood. We stood still and watched. Two girls, heliotrope and white, a man with two girls, pale green and white, and a man with a girl last.

      “Can you tell who they are?” I asked.

      “That’s Marie Tempest, that first girl in white, and that’s him and Lettie at the back, I don’t know any more.”

      He stood perfectly still until they had gone out of sight behind the banks down by the brooks, then he stuck his fork in the ground, saying:

      “You can easily finish — if you like. I’ll go and mow out that bottom corner.”

      He glanced at me to see what I was thinking of him. I was thinking that he was afraid to meet her, and I was smiling to myself. Perhaps he felt ashamed, for he went silently away to the machine, where he belted his riding breeches tightly round his waist, and slung the scythe-strap on his hip. I heard the clanging slur of the scythe stone as he whetted the blade. Then he strode off to mow the far bottom corner, where the ground was marshy, and the machine might not go, to bring down the lush green grass and the tall meadow-sweet.

      I went to the pond to meet the newcomers. I bowed to Louie Denys, a tall, graceful girl of the drooping type, elaborately gowned in heliotrope linen; I bowed to Agnes D’Arcy, an erect, intelligent girl with magnificent auburn hair — she wore no hat and carried a sunshade; I bowed to Hilda Seconde, a svelte, petite girl, exquisitely and delicately pretty; I bowed to Maria and to Lettie, and I shook hands with Leslie and with his friend, Freddy Cresswell. The latter was to be best man, a broad-shouldered, pale-faced fellow, with beautiful soft hair like red wheat, and laughing eyes, and a whimsical, drawling manner of speech, like a man who has suffered enough to bring him to manhood and maturity, but who in spite of all remains a boy, irresponsible, lovable — a trifle pathetic. As the day was very hot, both men were in flannels, and wore flannel collars, yet it was evident that they had dressed with scrupulous care. Instinctively I tried to pull my trousers into shape within my belt, and I felt the inferiority cast upon the father, big and fine as he was in his way, for his shoulders were rounded with work, and his trousers were much distorted.

      “What can we do?” said Marie; “you know we don’t want to hinder, we want to help you. It was so good of you to let us come.”

      The father laughed his fine indulgence, saying to them — they loved him for the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice:

      “Come on, then — I see there’s a bit of turning-over to do, as Cyril’s left. Come and pick your forks.”

      From among a sheaf of hay-forks he chose the lightest for them, and they began anywhere, just tipping at the swaths. He showed them carefully — Marie and the charming little Hilda — just how to do it, but they found the right way the hardest way, so they worked in their own fashion, and laughed heartily with him when he made playful jokes at them. He was a great lover of girls, and they blossomed from timidity under his hearty influence.

      “Ain’ it flippin’ ‘ot?” drawled Cresswell, who had just taken his M.A. degree in classics: “This bloomin’ stuff’s dry enough — come an’ flop on it.”

      He gathered a cushion of hay, which Louie Denys carefully appropriated, arranging first her beautiful dress, that fitted close to her shape, without any belt or interruption, and then laying her arms, that were netted to the shoulder in open lace, gracefully at rest. Lettie, who was also in a close-fitting white dress which showed her shape down to the hips, sat where Leslie had prepared for her, and Miss D’Arcy reluctantly accepted my pile.

      Cresswell twisted his clean-cut mouth in a little smile, saying:

      “Lord, a giddy little pastoral — fit for old Theocritus, ain’t it, Miss Denys?”

      “Why do you talk to me about those classic people — I daren’t even say their names. What would he say about us?” He laughed, winking his blue eyes:

      “He’d make old Daphnis there”— pointing to Leslie —“sing a match with me, Damoetas — contesting the merits of our various shepherdesses — begin Daphnis, sing up for Amaryllis, I mean Nais, damn ’em, they were for ever getting mixed up with their nymphs.”

      “I say, Mr Cresswell, your language! Consider whom you’re damning,” said Miss Denys, leaning over and tapping his head with her silk glove.

      “You say any giddy thing in a pastoral,” he replied, taking the edge of her skirt, and lying back on it, looking up at her as she leaned over him. “Strike up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese — or else the early apples that’ll be ripe in a week’s time.”

      “I’m sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,” interrupted Miss Denys; “they will never be ripe in a week — ugh, sour!”

      He smiled up at her in his whimsical way:

      “Hear that, Tempest — Ugh, sour!’— not much! Oh, love us, haven’t you got a start yet? — isn’t there aught to sing about, you blunt-faced kid?”

      “I’ll hear you first — I’m no judge of honey and cheese.”

      “An’ darn little apples — takes a woman to judge them; don’t it, Miss Denys?”

      “I don’t know,” she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead with her hand whereon rings were sparkling.

      “‘My love is not white, my hair is not yellow, like honey dropping through the sunlight — my love is brown, and sweet, and ready for the lips of love.’ Go on, Tempest — strike up, old cowherd. Who’s that tuning his pipe? — oh, that fellow sharpening his scythe! It’s enough to make your back ache to look at him working — go an’ stop him, somebody.”

      “Yes, let us go and fetch him,” said Miss D’Arcy. “I’m sure he doesn’t know what a happy pastoral state he’s in-let us go and fetch him.”

      “They don’t like hindering at their work, Agnes — besides, where ignorance is bliss —” said Lettie, afraid lest she might bring him. The other hesitated, then with her eyes she invited me to go with her.

      “Oh, dear,” she laughed, with a little moue, “Freddy is such an ass, and Louie Denys is like a wasp at treacle. I wanted to laugh, yet I felt just a tiny bit cross. Don’t you feel great when you go mowing like that? Father Timey sort of feeling? Shall we go and look! We’ll say we want those foxgloves he’ll be cutting down directly — and those bell flowers. I suppose you needn’t go on with your labours —”

      He did not know we were approaching till I called him, then he started slightly as he saw the tall, proud girl.

      “Mr Saxton — Miss D’Arcy,” I said, and he shook hands with her. Immediately his manner became ironic, for he had seen his hand big and coarse and inflamed with the snaith clasping the lady’s hand.

      “We thought you looked so fine,” she said to him, “and men are so embarrassing when they make love to somebody else — aren’t they? Save us those foxgloves, will you — they are splendid — like savage soldiers drawn up against the hedge — don’t cut them down — and those campanulas — bell-flowers, ah, yes! They are spinning idylls up there. I don’t care for idylls, do you? Oh, you don’t know what a classical pastoral person you are — but there, I don’t suppose you suffer from idyllic love —” she laughed, “— one doesn’t see the silly little god fluttering about in our hayfields, does one? Do you find much time to sport with Amaryllis in the shade? — I’m sure it’s a shame they banish Phyllis from the fields —”

      He laughed and went on with his work. She smiled a little, too, thinking she had made a great impression. She put out her hand with a dramatic gesture, and looked at me, when the scythe crunched through the meadow-sweet.

      “Crunch! isn’t it fine!” she exclaimed, “a kind of inevitable fate — I think it’s fine!”

      We wandered about picking flowers and talking until teatime. A manservant came with the tea-basket, and the girls spread the cloth under a great willow tree. Lettie took the

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