"Old Fenn told me yesterday that there were lots of wild ones," said
Helena languidly. "So there'll be something to eat next winter."
"Are you tired, Helena?"
"Not at all," she said, sitting up suddenly. "What were we talking
about?--oh, pheasants. Do you think we really shall starve next winter,
Geoffrey, as the Food Controller says?"
"I don't much care!" said French.
Helena bent forward.
"Now, you're cross with me, Geoffrey! Don't be cross! I think I really am
tired. I seem to have danced for hours." The tone was childishly
plaintive, and French was instantly appeased. The joy of being with
her--alone--returned upon him in a flood.
"Well, then, rest a little. Why should you go back just yet? Isn't it
jolly out here?"
"Lovely," she said absently--"but I promised Peter."
"That'll be all right. We'll just go across and back."
There was a short silence--long enough to hear the music from the house,
and the distant voices of the dancers. A little northwest wind was
creeping over the lake, and stirring the scents of the grasses and
sedge-plants on its banks.
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