Michael and Stella went out next day to explore the forest of Compiègne. They wandered away from the geometrical forest roads into high glades and noble chases; they speculated upon the whereabouts of the wild-boars that were hunted often, and therefore really did exist; they lay deep in the bracken utterly remote in the ardent emerald light, utterly quiet save for the thrum of insects rising and falling. In this intimate seclusion Michael found it easy enough to talk to Stella. Somehow her face, magnified by the proportions of the surrounding vegetation, scarcely seemed to belong to her, and Michael had a sensation of a fairy fellowship, as he felt himself being absorbed into her wide and strangely magical eyes. Seen like this they were as overwhelmingly beautiful as two flowers, holding mysteries of colour and form that could never be revealed save thus in an abandonment of contemplation. “Why do you stare at me, Michael?” she asked. “Because I think it’s funny to realize that you and I are as nearly as it’s possible to be the same person, and yet we’re as different from each other as we are from the rest of people. I wonder, if you didn’t know I was your brother, and I didn’t know you were my sister, if we should have a sort of—what’s the word?—intuition about it? For instance, you can play the piano, and I can’t even understand the feeling of being able to play the piano. I wish we knew our father. It must be interesting to have a father and a mother, and see what part of one comes from each.” “I always think father and mother weren’t married,” said Stella. Michael blushed hotly, taken utterly aback. “I say, my dear girl, don’t say things like that. That’s a frightful thing to say.” “Why?” “Why? Why, because people would be horrified to hear a little girl talking like that,” Michael explained. “Oh, I thought you meant they’d be shocked to think of people not being married.” “I say, really, you know, Stella, you ought to be careful. I wouldn’t have thought you even knew that people sometimes—very seldom, though, mind—don’t get married.” “You funny old boy,” rippled Stella. “You must think I’m a sort of doll just wound up to play the piano. If I didn’t know that much after going to Germany, why—oh, Michael, I do think you’re funny.” “I was afraid these beastly foreigners would spoil you,” muttered Michael. “It’s not the foreigners. It’s myself.” “Stella!” “Well, I’m fifteen and a half.” “I thought girls were innocent,” said Michael with disillusion in his tone. “Girls grow older quicker than boys.” “But I mean always innocent,” persisted Michael. “I don’t mean all girls, of course. But—well—a girl like you.” “Very innocent girls are usually very stupid girls,” Stella asserted.