In his hot fit he forgot all about Tristram, who, tired of listening, had slipped away among the gooseberry-bushes, with a half-eaten slice of bread and butter in his hand.
The fruit proved green and hard--for it was now the third week of May--and by the time his bread and butter was eaten the boy had a fancy to explore farther.

He wandered through the strawberry-beds, and, finding nothing there but disappointment, allowed himself to run lazily after a white butterfly, which led him down to the front of the pavilion, over the parterres of budding tulips and across to an east border gay with heart's-ease, bachelor's buttons, forget-me-nots and purple honesty.

The scent of budding yews met him here, blown softly across from Captain Runacles' garden.

The white butterfly balanced himself on this odorous breeze, and, rising against it, skimmed suddenly over the hedge and dropped out of sight.
Now there was set, under an archway in this hedge, a blue door, the chinks of which were veiled with cobwebs and the panels streaked with the silvery tracks of snails.

By this _pervius usus_ (as Captain Runacles called it) the two friends had been used to visit each other, but since the quarrel it had never been opened.