came round a large gorse bush to find herself face to face with someone who had been standing on the path, and realised with sudden shame that some at least of these thoughts had been said aloud. And the person, to make it worse, was the boy from the hotel next door.
“You’ve done it again,” he said. “But I daresay you didn’t mean to.”
“Done what?”
“Frightened the birds away. There was a pair of linnets.” He looked at her with mild irritation, which turned to active exasperation as something about her caught his attention. “Where on earth did you get that?”
“What?”
“The grass vetchling,” said the boy crossly, “stupid.”
Maria’s hand flew to the now wilting flowers in her buttonhole. “These? I didn’t know what they were.”
“Only the rather rare grass vetchling,” said the boy. “That’s all. Don’t you know this is a nature reserve?”
“No,” said Maria dolefully. The grass vetchling felt now as though it were burning a reproachful hole in her shirt.
He looked down at her – he was at least a head taller – and apparently relented a little for he said more tolerantly, “Oh well, don’t do it again, anyway.” And then, looking at her hand, “Can I see your fossil?”
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