And down the slope of the lawn, Stanny and Dossie rolled over and over in the joy of life. And up the slope they toiled, laughing, to roll interminably down. And the moments while they rolled were golden, priceless to Ranny. Winny, seated beside him on her chair, watched them rolling. "It's Stanny's knickers," she said, "that I can't get over!" "I don't want to hear of them again" (the golden moments were so few). "You make me wish I hadn't brought those kids." "Oh, Ranny!" Her eyes were serious and reproachful. "Well--I can't get you to myself one minute." "But aren't we having quite a happy day?" she said. "What with the beautiful flowers and the music and the Emu--" "You were sorry, Winky, for that disgraceful bird, and you're not a bit sorry for me." "Why should I be?" "My case is similar." Her eyes were serious still, but round the corners of her mouth a little smile was playing in secret by itself. She didn't know it was there, or she never would have let it play. "Don't you know that I want to say things to you?" She looked at him and was frightened by the hunger in his eyes. "Not now, Ranny," she said. "Not yet." "Why not?" "I want"--she was desperate--"I want to listen to the music." At that moment the violins and the cello were struggling together in a cry of anguish and of passion. "You _don't_," he said, savagely. He was right. She didn't. The music, yearning and struggling, tore at her heart, set her nerves vibrating, her breast heaving. It was as if it drew her to Ranny, urgently, irresistibly, against her will. "Not now, Ranny," she said, "not now." And it was as if she asked him to take pity on her. "No," he said. "Not now. But presently, when I see you home." "No. Not even then. Not at all. You mustn't, dear," she whispered. "I shall." They sat silent and let the music do with them as it would. And the sun dropped to the fields and flooded them and sank far away, behind Harrow on the Hill. And they called the children, the tired children, to them and went home. Stanny had to be carried all the way. He hung on his father's shoulder, utterly limp, utterly helpless, utterly pathetic. "He's nothing but a baby after all," said Winny. They were going over Wandsworth Bridge. "Do you remember, Ranny, the first time you ever saw me home, going over this bridge? What a moon there was!" "I do. That _was_ a moon," said Ranny. * * * * * There was no moon for them to-night. It was in a clear twilight, an hour later, that he saw her home. They went half the way without speaking, till they came to the little three-cornered grove beside the public footpath. It was deserted. He proposed that they should sit there for a while. "It's the only chance I'll ever get," he said to himself. She consented. The plane trees sheltered them and made darkness for them where they sat.