From fading cuckooflowers by the banks of the Lunt, from brittle mother-of-pearl shells, wet and glittering, on the Weymouth sands, from the orange-speckled bellies of great newts in Lenty Pond, there came to him, between those waving curtains, a speechless protest. Brief was his life⁠ ⁠… brief was Christie Malakite’s life.⁠ ⁠… Times like this at best would be rare. He could see himself returning to his tea-party and letting it all go! He could see Christie pouring out tea for her father and letting it all go! Perhaps⁠—such was his pride and such was hers⁠—this June afternoon, which might have been, but for this trivial discord, as perfect as a green bough, would stand out in his memory peeled and jagged, its sap all running out, its leaves drooping.

“Forgive me, Christie,” he said gravely. “Please forgive me and don’t think any more about it.”

The girl looked up from her work, her hands folded in her lap.

“You don’t mean,” she said slowly, “because of that ?”