That little thing was here and there and everywhere, yet Rylton could not say she poached.

Whatever she did, however, she _won_.
She does not throw up her cap this time--perhaps she had seen a little of that laughter before--but she claps her hands joyfully, and pats Rylton's arm afterwards in a _bon camarade_ fashion that seems to amuse him.

And is she tired?
There is no sense of fatigue, certainly, in the way she runs up the slope again, and flings herself gracefully upon the rug beside Mr.Gower.

Mr.Gower has not stirred from that rug since.

He seldom stirs.