The Innocents by Margery Sharp Page B

twig-and-leaf smell which only in autumn develops a full bouquet; I was happy to look forward to that too, after the catmint gave up flowering …
    Below me, as I glanced down, I could see Antoinette grubbing among the artichokes like some happy little animal. I must confess I should have been pleased if she in turn had looked up, and perhaps smiled, at me, but then what better proof of a little animal’s complete trust than that it has learned to ignore one’s presence?
    Antoinette grubbed away contentedly. I loitered smelling the catmint on my hands, snapping off now and then a twig without a leaf-bud, observing with pleasure that a periwinkle (heeled in as untimely as I’d divided the catmint!) seemed to have decided to take root. Periwinkles are almost as favourite with me as artichokes—Tom Thumb and Prospero!
    Looking down between the saplings a few minutes later, to see Antoinette still busy and absorbed, I also saw Cecilia.
    She was wearing the caftan.
    Its thin yet voluminous folds of lavender and purple silk softened all angularity; above them her beautiful head reared with an especial, flowerlike grace. She looked like a tall iris walking. I have never seen her look so lovely, nor so much at home in a garden.
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    Antoinette had seen her too. I watched almost holding my breath as the round fair head lifted, instinctively ducked, then raised again to stare longer at Cecilia swaying across the lawn like a tall iris …
    The artichokes parted. Antoinette was coming out.
    I held my breath as she, first, allowed herself to be seen, then step by cautious step advanced. Cecilia, the tall iris, had the wit not to speak, to stand quite still—she too perhaps holding her breath?—only extended her hand, now empty of any bribe …
    Unfortunately what Antoinette placed in it was a dead frog.
    I do not blame Cecilia for screaming. Had I not once almost screamed myself, at the gift of a bullock’s eye? Naturally Cecilia screamed. But she also slapped down Antoinette’s hand, and as the little corpse dropped between them trampled it angrily, disgustedly underfoot; and then it was Antoinette screaming.
    Of course I was beside them in a moment, and at the sight of me she stopped, but while I was still explaining to Cecilia that from Antoinette the gift of a dead frog was a mark of high esteem, as silently and suddenly as a mole or hedgehog the child disappeared, and I knew all too well where I should find her.
    I must say Cecilia recovered herself very quickly. She made a great joke of it. “For heaven’s sake, have I an infant biologist on my hands? Was she going to dissect it? Where on earth in New York am I going to find frogs for her?” cried Cecilia, in humorous mock dismay—so I myself tried to seem to take it as lightly. But I was in fact very much concerned that the first time Antoinette approached her mother of her own accord, and with a gift, should have ended in disaster. For disaster it was, since to Cecilia’s offense in crushing the frog was added the offense of her screaming—the very reverse of any sound Antoinette could tolerate.
    â€œAt least this time I’m not going to play hide-and-seek with her!” declared Cecilia—now humorously revengeful. “Actually I’d come just to show you I’m on my feet again. You were right, darling—when aren’t you?—I was tireder than I knew!”
    Well, obviously she’d been on her feet long enough to get to the Jumble; and had come also, I thought, to display her new acquisition. It was only natural, when she looked so lovely in it; but however much I admired her in Colonel Packett’s caftan (and however much I wanted to know how much she’d given for it), some perverseness made me refrain from comment. Nor did Cecilia draw attention to the garment—I suppose suddenly perceiving the same hole as I did in her explanation for not appearing earlier. We both behaved as