talked to the stag, as if he too were a boy she wanted to wheedle and fondle. He was male, so she must exert some kind of power over him. They trailed home by the fish-ponds, and Hermione told them about the quarrel of two male swans, who had striven for the love of the one lady. She chuckled and laughed as she told how the ousted lover had sat with his head buried under his wing, on the gravel.
When they arrived back at the house, Hermione stood on the lawn and sang out, in a strange, small, high voice that carried very far:
“Rupert! Rupert!” The first syllable was high and slow, the second dropped down. “Roo-o-opert.”
But there was no answer. A maid appeared.
“Where is Mr. Birkin, Alice?” asked the mild straying voice of Hermione. But under the straying voice, what a persistent, almost insane will!
“I think he’s in his room, madam.”
“Is he?”
Hermione went slowly up the stairs, along the corridor, singing out in her high, small call:
“Ru-oo-pert! Ru-oo pert!”
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