“That’s a stiff, artificial notion,” he said. “They don’t die any quicker in water than on their roots. And besides, they look nice in a bowl—they look jolly. And you only call a thing a corpse because it looks corpse-like.”
“Whether it is one or not?” she argued.
“It isn’t one to me. A dead flower isn’t a corpse of a flower.”
Clara now ignored him.
“And even so—what right have you to pull them?” she asked.
“Because I like them, and want them and there’s plenty of them.”
“And that is sufficient?”
“Yes. Why not? I’m sure they’d smell nice in your room in Nottingham.”
“And I should have the pleasure of watching them die.”
“But then it does not matter if they do die.”
Whereupon he left her, and went stooping over the clumps of tangled flowers which thickly sprinkled the field like pale, luminous foam-clots. Miriam had come close. Clara was kneeling, breathing some scent from the cowslips.
“I think,” said Miriam, “if you treat them with reverence you don’t do them any harm. It is the spirit you pluck them in that matters.”
“Yes,” he said. “But no, you get ’em because you want ’em, and that’s all. He held out his bunch.
Miriam was silent. He picked some more.
“Look at these!” he continued; “sturdy and lusty like little trees and like boys with fat legs.”
Clara’s hat lay on the grass not far off. She was kneeling, bending forward still to smell the flowers. Her neck gave him a sharp pang, such a beautiful thing, yet not proud of itself just now. Her breasts swung slightly in her blouse. The arching curve of her back was beautiful and strong; she wore no stays. Suddenly, without knowing, he was scattering a handful of cowslips over her hair and neck, saying:
“Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
If the Lord won’t have you the devil must.”
The chill flowers fell on her neck. She looked up at him, with almost pitiful, scared grey eyes, wondering what he was doing. Flowers fell on her face, and she shut her eyes.
Suddenly, standing there above her, he felt awkward.
