She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.

“New-mown hay!” he said. “Doesn’t it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!”

She was looking at the white clouds.

“I wonder if it will rain,” she said.

“Rain! Why! Do you want it to?”

They started on the return journey, Clifford jolting cautiously downhill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right, and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where bluebells stood in the light.

“Now old girl!” said Clifford, putting the chair to it.