"Allone, withouten any companye," he repeated. He looked down at Hilda; he had tactfully avoided looking at her while she spoke, fearing to embarrass her; her eyes were full of tears. "Thanks, Hilda," he said. It struck him that this highly strung little girl had best not be allowed to dwell too long on Arcite and, after a sympathetic pause (Odd was a very sympathetic person), he added: "Now are you going to take me into the garden?" "Yes." Hilda turned from the river. "You know he had just gained her, that made it all the worse. If he had not loved her he would not have minded dying so much, and being alone. One can hardly bear it," Hilda repeated. "It is intensely sad. I don't think you ought to have learned it by heart, Hilda. That's ungrateful of me, isn't it? But I am old enough to take an impersonal pleasure in sad things; I am afraid they make you sad." Hilda's half-wondering smile was reassuringly childlike. "Oh, but it's _nice_ being sad like that." Odd reflected, as they went into the garden, that she had put herself into his category. After the shadow of the shrubberies through which they passed, the fragrant sunlight was dazzling. Rows of sweet peas, their mauves and pinks and whites like exquisite musical motives, ran across the delicious old garden. A border of deep purple pansies struck a beautifully meditative chord. Flowers always affected Odd musically; he half closed his eyes to look at the sweeps of sun-flooded color. A medley of Schumann and Beethoven sang through his head as he glanced down, smiling at Hilda Archinard; her gently responsive little smile was funnily comprehensive; one might imagine that tunes were going through her head too. "Isn't it jolly, Hilda?" "Very jolly," she laughed, and, as they walked between the pansy borders she kept her gentle smile and her gentle stare up at his appreciative face. She thought his smile so nice; his teeth, which crowded forward a little, lent it perhaps its peculiar sweetness; his eyelids, drooping at the outer corners, gave the curious look of humorous sadness to the expression of his brown eyes. His moustache was cut shortly on his upper lip, and showed the rather quizzical line of his mouth. Hilda, unconsciously, enumerated this catalogue of impressions. "What fine strawberries," said Odd. "I like the fragrance almost more than the flavor." "But won't you taste them?" Hilda dropped his hand to skip lightly into the strawberry bed. "They are ripe, lots of them," she announced, and she came running back, her outstretched hands full of the summer fruit, red, but for the tips, still untinted. The sunlit white frock, the long curves of black hair, the white face, slim black legs, and the spots of crimson color made a picture--a sunshiny Whistler. Odd accepted the strawberries gratefully; they were very fine. "I don't think you can have them better at Allersley Manor," said Hilda, smiling.