“Perhaps some condition of the atmosphere lowers the vitality of the people?” he said.

“No, it’s man that poisons the universe,” she asserted.

“Fouls his own nest,” remarked Clifford.

The chair puffed on. In the hazel copse catkins were hanging pale gold, and in sunny places the wood-anemones were wide open, as if exclaiming with the joy of life, just as good as in past days, when people could exclaim along with them. They had a faint scent of apple-blossom. Connie gathered a few for Clifford.

He took them and looked at them curiously.

“Thou still unravished bride of quietness,” he quoted. “It seems to fit flowers so much better than Greek vases.”

“Ravished is such a horrid word!” she said. “It’s only people who ravish things.”

“Oh, I don’t know⁠ ⁠… snails and things,” he said.