is had been his
twenty-first birthday, and he had his money, and could do what he liked.
He would not stay in England. He would be off to Athens, or Rome, or
even to Paris, and work till he COULD do something. And in his holidays
he would study animals and birds in wild countries where there were
plenty of them, and you could watch them in their haunts. It was stupid
having to stay in a place like Oxford; but at the thought of what Oxford
meant, his roaming fancy, like a bird hypnotized by a hawk, fluttered,
stayed suspended, and dived back to earth. And that feeling of wanting
to make things suddenly left him. It was as though he had woken up,
his real self; then--lost that self again. Very quietly he made his way
downstairs. The garden door was not shuttered, not even locked--it must
have been forgotten overnight. Last night! He had never thought he would
feel like this when she came--so bewildered, and confused; drawn towards
her, but by something held back. And he felt impatient, angry with
himself, almost with her. Why could he not be just simply happy, as this
morning was happy? He got his field-glasses and searched the meadow that
led down to the river. Yes, there were several rabbits out. With the
white marguerites and the dew cobwebs, it was all moon-flowery and
white; and the rabbits being there made it perfect. He wanted one badly
to model from, and for a moment was tempted to get his rook rifle--but
what was the good of a dead rabbit--besides, they looked so happy! He
put the glasses down and went towards his greenhouse to get a drawing
block, thinking to sit on the wall and make a sort of Midsummer Night's
Dream sketch of flowers and rabbits. Someone was there, bending down
and doing something to his creatures. Who had the cheek? Why, it was
Sylvia--in her dressing-gown! He grew hot, then cold, with anger. He
could not bear anyone in that holy place! It was hateful to have his
things even looked at; and she--she seemed to be fingering them. He
pulled the door open with a jerk, and said: "What are you doing?" He was
indeed so stirred by righteous wrath that he hardly noticed the gasp she
gave, and the collapse of her figure against the wall. She ran past him,
and vanished without a word. He went up to his creatures and saw
that she had placed on the head of each one of them a little sprig of
jessamine flower. Why! It was idiotic! He could see nothing at first
but the ludicrousness of flowers on the heads of hi