hanging from the wall were other furs. Hilda took down one, which she put on. It was a cloak of rabbit-skin and of white fur, with a hood, apparently of the skins of stoats. She laughed at Syson from out of this barbaric mantle, saying:
“What do you think of it?”
“Ah——! I congratulate you on your man,” he replied.
“And look!” she said.
In a little jar on a shelf were some sprays, frail and white, of the first honeysuckle.
“They will scent the place at night,” she said.
He looked round curiously.
“Where does he come short, then?” he asked. She gazed at him for a few moments. Then, turning aside:
“The stars aren’t the same with him,” she said. “You could make them flash and quiver, and the forget-me-nots come up at me like phosphorescence. You could make things wonderful. I have found it out—it is true. But I have them all for myself, now.”
He laughed, saying:
“After all, stars and forget-me-nots are only luxuries. You ought to make poetry.”
“Aye,” she assented. “But I have them all now.”
Again he laughed bitterly at her.
She turned swiftly. He was leaning against the small window of the tiny, obscure room, and was watching her, who stood in the doorway, still cloaked in her mantle. His cap was removed, so she saw his face and head distinctly in the dim room. His
