She nodded to both questions. "Let us go round to the back." The path at the side of the house was dark with shrubs. "I don't like this little bit," she said. "I hardly ever walk on it. It's--" "What?" "Oh, they don't come out. They stay there and get unhappy." "The bushes?" "The spirits in them." He walked beside her with his hands behind his back and his head bent. "You're thinking," she said. "Yes." "Don't," she begged, "think away from me." He stopped, surprised. "I'm not doing that--but why?" "I don't know," she said, looking him in the eyes, "but I should hate it." "I was wondering how to bring myself to scold you." They had reached the lawn and, caught by the light from the drawing-room, they stood under the poplars and watched the shadows moving on walls and ceiling. The piano and the people in the room were out of sight, and Miriam's small, husky voice came with a hint of mystery. "'Drink to me only with thine eyes,'" she sang. "'And I will pledge with mine,'" Rupert joined in richly. "'Or leave a kiss within the cup--'" In silence, under the trees, Helen and Zebedee listened to the singing, to voices wrangling about the words, and when a figure appeared at the window they turned together and retreated beyond the privet hedge, behind John's vegetable garden and through the door on to the moor. The earth was so black that the rising ground was exaggerated into a hill; against it, Helen's figure was like a wraith, yet Zebedee was acutely conscious of her slim solidity. He was also half afraid of her, and he had an easily controlled desire to run from the delight she gave him, a delight which hurt and reminded him too clearly of past joys. "Now," she said, and stood before him in her dangerous simplicity. "What are you going to say?" She seemed to have walked out of the darkness into his life, a few nights ago, an unexpected invasion, but one not to be repelled, nor did he wish to repel it. He was amazed to hear himself uttering his thoughts aloud. "I always liked you when you were a little girl," he said, as though he accounted for something to himself. "Better than Miriam?" she asked quickly. "Of course." "Oh," she said, and paused. "But I feel as if Miriam--" She stopped again and waited for his next words, but he saw the steepness of the path on which he had set his feet and he would not follow it. "And I used to think you looked--well, brave." "Did I? Don't I now?" "Yes; so you see, you must be." "I'll try. Three stars," she said, looking up. "But mayn't I--mayn't I say the things I'm thinking?" "I hope you will," he answered gravely; "but then, you must be careful what you think." "This is a very gentle lecture," she said. "Four stars, now. Five. When I've counted seven, we'll go back, but I rather hoped you would be a little cross." Pleased, yet half irritated, by this simplicity, he stood in silence while she counted her seven stars. CHAPTER XI