"Of course he is, but that's different. You don't require a warm heart to be fond of your own people: that's just nature and habit. What I call a warm heart is the sort of heart that makes you adore your friends, and worship your lovers, and find the world well lost for somebody you've only met twice before." Fay picked up a stalk of grass and began tickling her cheek with it. For the first time in my life I became envious of the vegetable kingdom. "Should you call me a person with a warm heart?" I asked. "I think you are very fond of Miss Kingsnorth," replied Fay demurely. "That's different: it's just nature and habit to be fond of your own people. You see, you are not the only one who can quote. What I want to know is, do you consider that I have a warm heart?" "How on earth can I tell its temperature?" "Better than anybody. You hold it in the hollow of your hand." "Then it can't be very warm or else it would burn my fingers and I should drop it," laughed the girl; "so that question answers itself." "Then allow me to ask another. Have you got what people call a warm heart?" She shrugged her slender shoulders. "Temperature ninety-eight, point four--absolutely normal. So no further bulletins will be issued." And with that, for the time being, I had to be content. "I do love a west wind," Fay said, after a few minutes of blissful silence, "don't you? I think it is the nicest wind we have, combining the softness of the South with the bracingness of the North: like people with sharp tongues and sweet tempers." I agreed with this--as indeed I was ready to do with any idea to which Fay gave utterance; for Love is no whit behind Conscience in the manufacture of cowards. "I always think the different winds are different colours," she went on; "the North wind is white, the South wind yellow, the East wind blue and the West wind green. At least, that's how they always seem to me." "And it's a very good description of them, too," I said, as I should have said just then of any description given by Fay. "What's going on down there," she suddenly exclaimed, pointing to the field spread out at our feet where the hay-cutting machine was going round and round in an ever-diminishing circle. "There seems to be a sort of fuss on!" My eyes were useless in a case like this, so I had to ask Fay for further information. "The machine has stopped," she said, "and there is a crowd of labourers round it, and all the haymakers from the next field have left off haymaking and are rushing to join the crowd." "There must have been an accident," I said, rising from my seat under the hedge; "let us go down and see what is the matter. I always hate all reaping machines, they are so apt to cut off people's legs." "I hate machines of any kind," agreed Fay, as we hastened down the hill together; "they are so ugly, and make such a noise. When I come out of the machinery-in-motion part of an exhibition, I always feel as if I'd been in hell."