Only he could make it her own, immortal.

She was dissatisfied.
Dew was already on the paths.

In the old oak-wood a mist was rising, and he hesitated, wondering whether one whiteness were a strand of fog or only campion-flowers pallid in a cloud.
By the time they came to the pine-trees Miriam was getting very eager and very tense.

Her bush might be gone.

She might not be able to find it; and she wanted it so much.