A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out onto the soft yellow earth.
"Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him," said Clifford.
"Look! he's like a parson in a pulpit," said she.
She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.
"New-mown hay!" he said. "Doesn't it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!"
She was looking at the white clouds.
"I wonder if it will rain," she said.
"Rain! Why! Do you want it to?"
They started on the return journey, Clifford jolting cautiously downhill. They came to the dark bottom of the hollow, turned to the right, and after a hundred yards swerved up the foot of the long slope, where bluebells stood in the light.
"Now old girl!" said Clifford, putting the chair to it.
It was a steep and jolty climb. The chair plugged slowly, in a struggling unwilling fashion. Still, she nosed her way up unevenly, till she came to where the hyacinths were all around her, then she balked, struggled, jerked a little way out of the flowers, then stopped.
"We'd better sound the horn and see if the keeper will come," said Connie. "He could push her a bit. For that matter, I will push. It helps."
"We'll let her breathe," said Clifford. "Do you mind putting a scotch under the wheel?"
Connie found a stone, and they waited. After a while Clifford started his motor again, then set the chair in motion. It struggled and faltered like a sick thing, with curious noises.
"Let me push!" said Connie, coming up behind.
"No! Don't push!" he said angrily. "What's the good of the damned thing, if it has to be pushed! Put the stone under!"
There was another pause, then another start; but more ineffectual than before.
"You must let me push," she said. "Or sound the horn for the keeper."
"Wait!"
She waited; and he had another try, doing more harm than good.
