“And from the deluged park
The cuckoo of a worse July
Is calling through the dark,”
said Anne Fielding softly to Robin Dale, finding that Lord Tennyson, who still remained her favourite poet, had words for all she felt.
“It is,” said Robin. “Darling Anne, I love you very much. What fun it will be when you come to live here.”
“It will,” said Anne. “But it is dreadful to think that we shall have to leave it some day, like Mr. Birkett.”
“Now, my love, don’t you cry too,” said Robin. “You are as bad as the girl who went down to the cellar to draw beer and saw the axe stuck in the beam,” at which Anne, who had been properly brought up on Grimms’ Household Tales, began to laugh. But both of them were penetrated for the moment by a sense of the transitoriness of things and when Lady Fieldin
