THE STITCHBIRD 49 
too, that at any moment he might again further 
compromise himself in my presence. Why, why 
could he not have taken a ripe berry and allowed 
me to nourish my enthusiasm? It was in vain 
I told myself that he might be a good family 
man, that he might perform his strict duty to- 
wards his consort. Even whilst I said it I was 
aware of the “little more and how much it is,” 
of the high devotion and punctilious chivalry 
that were wanting. He cannot have deeply 
cared for his mate, or why—it was my unfortunate 
lot to see everything—did he select as a courting 
gift not the very best and ripest of berries from 
the coprosma branch visited? I examined it. 
I counted the berries—there was but one missing, 
the green one I had seen in his bill—not, not the 
ripest of the lot already of a pale pink. It may 
seem a small matter; he may even have foreseen 
the hen would reject the offering. Still it was a 
gift, and should have been the best his means 
could afford ; besides—remember I saw everything 
—there was a cavalierly carelessness in its selec- 
tion, as if any berry would do. The choice of it, 
too, was made in unbecoming haste, perfunctorily, 
not at all after the fashion a lover should choose 
a gift for his fair. Worst of all—and the possi- 
bility, nay, the probability (for we know what 
men are) could not be driven from my mind,— 
had he not with every appearance of tenderness, 
D 
