she said.

"Perhaps not."

The sunshine had gone, and over the moor the light was grey; grey clouds
hung low in the sky, and as he looked down at her, it seemed to Zebedee
that Helen was some emanation of grey earth and air.

"We'll take him out," she said.

"And then what shall we do with him?"

"I believe he'd be quite happy in the kitchen!"

"Yes, he's a domesticated old boy."

"We can't put him in the hen-house. Just tie him to the post and let him
eat."

When that was done, she would have gone into the house, but Zebedee kept
her back.

"Mayn't we stay in the garden? Are you warm enough?"

She nodded to both questions. "Let us go round to the back." The path at
the side of the house was dark with shrubs. "I don't like this little
bit," she said. "I hardly ever walk on it. It's--"

"What?"

"Oh, they don't come out. They stay there and get unhappy."

"The bushes?"

"The spirits in them."

He walked beside her with his hands behind his back and his head bent.

"You're thinking," she said.

"Yes."

"Don't," she begged, "think away from me."

He stopped, surprised. "I'm not doing that--but why?"

"I don't know," she said, looking him in the eyes, "but I should hate
it."

"I was wondering how to bring myself to scold you."

They had reached the lawn and, caught by the light from the
drawing-room, they stood under the poplars and watched the shadows
moving on walls and ceiling. The piano and the people in the room were
out of sight, and Miriam's small, husky voice came with a hint of
mystery.

"'Drink to me only with thine eyes,'" she sang.

"'And I will pledge with mine,'" Rupert joined in richly.

"'Or leave a kiss within the cup--'"

In silence, under the trees, Helen and Zebedee listened to the singing,
to voices wrangling about the words, and when a figure appeared at the
window they turned together and retreated beyond the privet hedge,
behind John's vegetable garden and through the door on to the moor.

The earth was so black that the rising ground was exaggerated into a
hill; against it, Helen's figure was like a wraith, yet Zebedee was
acutely conscious of her slim solidity. He was also half afraid of her,
and he had an easily controlled desire to run from the delight she gave
him, a delight which hurt and reminded him too clearly of past joys.

"Now," she said, and stood before him in her dangerous simplicity. "What
are you going to say?"

She seemed to have walked out o