“It is against my creed,” said I. “I believe I have lost something,” said she. “Come,” said Leslie, “don’t trouble with fancies. Come with me to the bottom of this cup, and see how strange it will be, with the sky marked with branches like a filigree lid.” She rose and followed him down the steep side of the pit, crying, “Ah, you are treading on the flowers.” “No,” said he, “I am being very careful.” They sat down together on a fallen tree at the bottom. She leaned forward, her fingers wandering white among the shadowed grey spaces of leaves, plucking, as if it were a rite, flowers here and there. He could not see her face. “Don’t you care for me?” he asked softly. “You?”—she sat up and looked at him, and laughed strangely. “You do not seem real to me,” she replied, in a strange voice. For some time they sat thus, both bowed and silent. Birds “skirred” off from the bushes, and Emily looked up with a great start as a quiet, sardonic voice said above us: “A dove-cot, my eyes if it ain’t! It struck me I ’eered a cooin’, an’ ’ere’s th’ birds. Come on, sweethearts, it’s th’ wrong place for billin’ an’ cooin’, in th’ middle o’ these ’ere snowdrops. Let’s ’ave yer names, come on.” “Clear off, you fool!” answered Leslie from below, jumping up in anger. We all four turned and looked at the keeper. He stood in the rim of light, darkly; fine, powerful form, menacing us. He did not move, but like some malicious Pan looked down on us and said: “Very pretty—pretty! Two—and two makes four. ’Tis true, two and two makes four. Come on, come on out o’ this ’ere bridal bed, an’ let’s ’ave a look at yer.” “Can’t you use your eyes, you fool,” replied Leslie, standing up and helping Lettie with her furs. “At any rate you can see there are ladies here.” “Very sorry, Sir! You can’t tell a lady from a woman at this distance at dusk. Who may you be, Sir?” “Clear out! Come along, Lettie, you can’t stay here now.” They climbed into the light. “Oh, very sorry, Mr. Tempest—when yer look down on a man he never looks the same. I thought it was some young fools come here dallyin’—” “Damn you—shut up!” exclaimed Leslie—“I beg your pardon, Lettie. Will you have my arm?” They looked very elegant, the pair of them. Lettie was wearing a long coat which fitted close; she had a small hat whose feathers flushed straight back with her hair. The keeper looked at them. Then, smiling, he went down the dell with great strides, and returned, saying, “Well, the lady might as well take her gloves.” She took them from him, shrinking to Leslie. Then she started, and said: “Let me fetch my flowers.” She ran for the handful of snowdrops that lay among the roots of the trees. We all watched her. “Sorry I made such a mistake—a lady!” said Annable. “But I’ve nearly forgot the sight o’ one—save the squire’s daughters, who are never out o’ nights.” “I should think you never have seen many—unless—! Have you ever been a groom?”