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Updated: June 12, 2025
"Quite like the Front," Terry cried cheerfully; "I expect you feel at home when you hear a noise like that." Tabs looked round. He had been too busy talking to notice where they were. To the right, through wind-rumpled, tree-dotted meadows ran the Thames, still intensely silver in the sunshine, but somehow blither and more young than in London. Clouds flew high; everything was riotously spacious.
As his bare head brought its mop of damp wind-rumpled hair close, she ran her fingers through it, and with her handkerchief wiped his forehead. "Sometimes I almost wish you'd get sick," she said irrelevantly. "In the name of common sense, why?" demanded the Harvester. "Oh it must be born in the heart of a woman to want to mother something," answered the Girl.
With a purely artistic intent surely it was no harm to dwell upon the lines of his strong nose and chin, the humorous curves of his lips, and enjoy the effect of the warm, wind-rumpled hair around his forehead; and so her eyes remained fixed and she was unconscious of the light that began to warm and glow softly within them. Dunham was not asleep. His half-amused, half-piqued thoughts rambled on.
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