And then, before he had finished untying this knot of his parents’ hostility, he was plunged into the second dangerous thought. This was more troubling to his peace than the other. It was about that grey feather which he had found in that book of Christie’s! Why did it rouse such peculiar interest in him, to think of Christie and of Christie’s fondness for the works of Sir Thomas Browne? What was Christie to him with her books and her queer tastes? What stability could there be in his love for Gerda when this troubling curiosity stirred within him at the idea of Gerda’s friend?

As he thought of all this, his eyes caught sight of the golden face of a little dandelion in the midst of the trodden grass. He touched the edge of its petals rather wearily with the end of his stick, thinking to himself, “If I leave it there it’ll probably be trodden by these people into the mud in a few minutes; and if I pick it up it’ll be dead before I get home!”