“It sounds—­it sounds the way a humming-bird would look through a telescope,” she said half aloud, and Rosemary murmured sleepily but courteously, “What, Janet?”

“Just an airplane—­no, gone now.  It sounded like a bird.  Didn’t you hear it?”

“No,” replied Rosemary drowsily.  “We get so used to the old things that we don’t even notice them any more.  Queer time to be flying!”

“It sounded rather—­beautiful,” said Janet, her face still turned to the stars.  “Far off, but so clear and sure.  I wonder—­I wonder whether it will be coming back?”

Well, it came back.  She went down to White Orchards with Rosemary for the following week-end, and after she had smoothed her hair and given a scornful glance at the pale face in the mirror, with its shadowy eyes and defiant mouth, she slipped out to the lower terrace for a breath of the soft country air.  Halfway down the flight of steps she stumbled and caught at the balustrade, and stood shaking for a moment, her face pressed against its rough surface.  Once before—­once before she had stumbled on those steps, but it was not the balustrade that had saved her.  She could feel his arms about her now, holding her up, holding her close and safe.  The magical voice was in her ears.  “Let you go?  I’ll never let you go!  Poor little feet, stumblin’ in the dark, what would you do without Jerry?  Time’s comin’, you cheeky little devils, when you’ll come runnin’ to him when he whistles!  No use tryin’ to get away—­you belong to him.”

Oh, whistle to them now, Jerry—­they would run to you across the stars!

“How’d you like to marry me before I go back to-morrow?  No?  No accountin’ for tastes, Miss Abbott—­lots of people would simply jump at it!  All right—­April, then.  Birds and flowers and all that kind o’ thing—­pretty intoxicatin’, what?  No, keep still, darlin’ goose.  What feller taught you to wear a dress that looks like roses and smells like roses and feels like roses?  This feller?  Lord help us, what a lovely liar!”

And suddenly she found herself weeping helplessly, desperately, like an exhausted child, shaken to the heart at the memory of the rose-coloured dress.

“You like me just a bit, don’t you, funny, quiet little thing?  But you’d never lift a finger to hold me—­that’s the wonder of you—­that’s why I’ll never leave you.  No, not for heaven.  You can’t lose me—­no use tryin’.”

But she had lost you, Jerry—­you had left her, for all your promises, to terrified weeping in the hushed loveliness of the terrace, where your voice had turned her still heart to a dancing star, where your fingers had touched her quiet blood to flowers and flames and butterflies.  She had believed you then—­what would she ever believe again?  And then she caught back the despairing sobs swiftly, for once more she heard, far off, the rushing of wings.  Nearer—­nearer—­humming and singing and hovering in the quiet dusk.  Why, it was over