he flung herself on the bed, and there lay, her
handkerchief across her mouth, gnawing at its edges.

XV

Mark's nineteenth birthday rose in grey mist, slowly dropped its veil to
the grass, and shone clear and glistening. He woke early. From his
window he could see nothing in the steep park but the soft blue-grey,
balloon-shaped oaks suspended one above the other among the round-topped
boulders. It was in early morning that he always got his strongest
feeling of wanting to model things; then and after dark, when, for want
of light, it was no use. This morning he had the craving badly, and the
sense of not knowing how weighed down his spirit. His drawings, his
models--they were all so bad, so fumbly. If only this had been his
twenty-first birthday, and he had his money, and could do what he liked.
He would not stay in England. He would be off to Athens, or Rome, or
even to Paris, and work till he COULD do something. And in his holidays
he would study animals and birds in wild countries where there were
plenty of them, and you could watch them in their haunts. It was stupid
having to stay in a place like Oxford; but at the thought of what Oxford
meant, his roaming fancy, like a bird hypnotized by a hawk, fluttered,
stayed suspended, and dived back to earth. And that feeling of wanting
to make things suddenly left him. It was as though he had woken up, his
real self; then--lost that self again. Very quietly he made his way
downstairs. The garden door was not shuttered, not even locked--it must
have been forgotten overnight. Last night! He had never thought he would
feel like this when she came--so bewildered, and confused; drawn towards
her, but by something held back. And he felt impatient, angry with
himself, almost with her. Why could he not be just simply happy, as this
morning was happy? He got his field-glasses and searched the meadow that
led down to the river. Yes, there were several rabbits out. With the
white marguerites and the dew cobwebs, it was all moon-flowery and white;
and the rabbits being there made it perfect. He wanted one badly to
model from, and for a moment was tempted to get his rook rifle--but what
was the good of a dead rabbit--besides, they looked so happy! He put the
glasses down and went towards his greenhouse to get a drawing block,
thinking to sit on the wall and make a sort of Midsummer Night's Dream
sketch of flowers and rabbits. Someone was there, bending down and do