They passed on under the poplars, which were hanging strings of green beads above them. There was a little open space, with tufts of bluebells. Lettie stooped over a wood-pigeon that lay on the ground on its breast, its wings half spread. She took it up—its eyes were bursten and bloody; she felt its breast, ruffling the dimming iris on its throat.
“It’s been fighting,” he said.
“What for—a mate?” she asked, looking at him.
“I don’t know,” he answered.
“Cold—he’s quite cold, under the feathers! I think a wood-pigeon must enjoy being fought for—and being won; especially if the right one won. It would be a fine pleasure, to see them fighting—don’t you think?” she said, torturing him.
“The claws are spread—it fell dead off the perch,” he replied.
“Ah, poor thing—it was wounded—and sat and waited for death—when the other had won. Don’t you think life is very cruel, George—and love the cruellest of all?”
He laughed bitterly under the pain of her soft, sad tones.
“Let me bury him—and have done with the beaten lover. But we’ll make him a pretty grave.”
She scooped a hole in the dark soil, and snatching a handful of bluebells, threw them in on top of the dead bird. Then she smoothed the soil over all, and pressed her white hands on the black loam.
“There,” she said, knocking her hands one against the other to shake off the soil, “he’s done with. Come on.”
He followed her, speechless with his emotion.
