She chuckled and laughed as she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under his wing, on the gravel.
When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on the lawn and sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far: 'Rupert! Rupert!' The first syllable was high and slow, the second dropped down.

'Roo-o-opert.' But there was no answer.

A maid appeared.
'Where is Mr Birkin, Alice ?' asked the mild straying voice of Hermione.
But under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane WILL! 'I think he's in his room, madam.' 'Is he ?' Hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor, singing out in her high, small call: 'Ru-oo-pert! Ru-oo pert!' She came to his door, and tapped, still crying: 'Roo-pert.' 'Yes,' sounded his voice at last.
'What are you doing ?' The question was mild and curious.
There was no answer.

Then he opened the door.
'We've come back,' said Hermione.

'The daffodils are SO beautiful.' 'Yes,' he said, 'I've seen them.' She looked at him with her long, slow, impassive look, along her cheeks.
'Have you ?' she echoed.