Something small and soft slid gratefully into his palm, and there
was silence for a space. Bill said nothing. Elizabeth said
nothing. And Mr Pickering had stopped treading on twigs. The
faintest of night breezes ruffled the tree-tops above them. The
moonbeams filtered through the branches. He held her hand tightly.
'Better?'
'Much.'
The breeze died away. Not a leaf stirred. The wood was very still.
Somewhere on a bough a bird moved drowsily 'All right?'
'Yes.'
And then something happened--something shattering, disintegrating.
It was only a pheasant, but it sounded like the end of the world.
It rose at their feet with a rattle that filled the universe, and
for a moment all was black confusion. And when that moment had
passed it became apparent to Bill that his arm was round
Elizabeth, that she was sobbing helplessly, and that he was
kissing her. Somebody was talking very rapidly in a low voice.
He found that it was himself.
'Elizabeth!'
There was something wonderful about the name, a sort of music.
This was odd, because the name, as a name, was far from being a
favourite of his. Until that moment childish associations had
prejudiced him against it. It had been inextricably involved in
his mind with an atmosphere of stuffy schoolrooms and general
misery, for it had been his misfortune that his budding mind was
constitutionally incapable of remembering who had been Queen of
England at the time of the Spanish Armada--a fact that had caused
a good deal of friction with a rather sharp-tempered governess.
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