The roses left off calling to the dead, and suddenly enfolded the two young grave creatures leaning against the tomb, in a gust of hot perfume.
"Do you remember," Fay's voice was tremulous, "how you gave me a bit of pink may ?" "I remember." "I was looking at it yesterday.

It is not very pink now." It was true.

In all shallow meanings, and when she had not had time to get her mind into a tangle, Fay was perfectly truthful.

She had yesterday been turning over the contents of a little cedar box in which she kept her childish possessions, and she had found in an envelope a brown unsightly ghost of what had once been a may-blossom on a Hampshire down.

She had remembered the vivid sunshine, the wheeling seagull, the soft south wind blowing in from the sea.