The father laughed his fine indulgence, saying to them—they loved him for the mellow, laughing modulation of his voice: “Come on, then—I see there’s a bit of turning-over to do, as Cyril’s left. Come and pick your forks.” From among a sheaf of hayforks he chose the lightest for them, and they began anywhere, just tipping at the swaths. He showed them carefully—Marie and the charming little Hilda—just how to do it, but they found the right way the hardest way, so they worked in their own fashion, and laughed heartily with him when he made playful jokes at them. He was a great lover of girls, and they blossomed from timidity under his hearty influence. “Ain’ it flippin’ ’ot?” drawled Cresswell, who had just taken his M. A. degree in classics: “This bloomin’ stuff’s dry enough—come an’ flop on it.” He gathered a cushion of hay, which Louie Denys carefully appropriated, arranging first her beautiful dress, that fitted close to her shape, without any belt or interruption, and then laying her arms, that were netted to the shoulder in open lace, gracefully at rest. Lettie, who was also in a closefitting white dress which showed her shape down to the hips, sat where Leslie had prepared for her, and Miss D’Arcy reluctantly accepted my pile. Cresswell twisted his clean-cut mouth in a little smile, saying: “Lord, a giddy little pastoral—fit for old Theocritus, ain’t it, Miss Denys?” “Why do you talk to me about those classic people—I daren’t even say their names. What would he say about us?” He laughed, winking his blue eyes: “He’d make old Daphnis there,”—pointing to Leslie—“sing a match with me, Damoetas—contesting the merits of our various sheperdesses—begin Daphnis, sing up for Amaryllis, I mean Nais, damn ’em, they were for ever getting mixed up with their nymphs.” “I say, Mr. Cresswell, your language! Consider whom you’re damning,” said Miss Denys, leaning over and tapping his head with her silk glove. “You say any giddy thing in a pastoral,” he replied, taking the edge of her skirt, and lying back on it, looking up at her as she leaned over him. “Strike up, Daphnis, something about honey or white cheese—or else the early apples that’ll be ripe in a week’s time.” “I’m sure the apples you showed me are ever so little and green,” interrupted Miss Denys; “they will never be ripe in a week—ugh, sour!” He smiled up at her in his whimsical way: “Hear that, Tempest—‘Ugh, sour!’—not much! Oh, love us, haven’t you got a start yet?—isn’t there aught to sing about, you blunt-faced kid?” “I’ll hear you first—I’m no judge of honey and cheese.” “An’ darn little apples—takes a woman to judge them; don’t it, Miss Denys?” “I don’t know,” she said, stroking his soft hair from his forehead with her hand whereon rings were sparkling.