‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. It was the first day you kissed me, under the willows, coming into Veraz. Practically all. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel.
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