They spent all morning there. They both abhorred the “tick and run” type of twitcher. Twitching was about getting to know and appreciating new birds. Molly found the men and saw the bird. She was disappointed by its drabness and wandered off to look at plants.

Greenish warbler is not exceptionally rare, but it was a weekend, there was nothing else about and a small representative crowd began to gather. They had hoped too that the golden orioles might still be there. They were predominantly men, in groups, wearing oiled green jackets and woollen hats, despite the weather. There was the occasional resigned wife and bored, tetchy girlfriend. Rob entertained them with his story of finding the bird, a story which grew more exaggerated as the morning proceeded. Adam Anderson appeared, walking down the road to the cemetery, pushing a bicycle, and did not seem at at all out of place. Palmer-Jones was curious, not surprised.

“Have you come all the way from Surrey on that?”

It seemed unlikely, but he could think of no other explanation. He would believe anything of the younger twitchers. He added:

“I’m sorry, I should have telephoned you to let you know that we were coming. We could have given you a lift.”

“That’s all right.” Adam was as diffident, as shy as ever. “The bike folds up very small. I hitch with it, and use it for the last few miles if I get stuck.”

“Well, you can always come back with us this evening. We’ve plenty of room.”

“Thank you very much, but I thought that I’d stay for a few days. The wind looks good.”

“This is a tick for you, is it? The greenish warbler?”

Adam blushed. He did not want to appear ungrateful, and he did not want to boast.

“Well,” he said quietly, “I do need it for my year list.”

He set up his tripod and telescope and began earnestly to study it. George looked at the boy and wondered that his father found so much to object to. It seemed so very sad that Anderson could not see beyond his prejudices. Adam must be very lonely at home. George called over to him impulsively. The boy looked round, showing an intense look of displeasure at being disturbed, hiding it quickly when he saw who was speaking.

“When you get home, give me a ring. I’d like to see your notes on the bimaculated lark. Perhaps you could come to supper one evening.”

Adam looked very pleased, touchingly pleased.

“I’d like that,” he said, and George could tell that he meant it.

Along the coastal path, beyond the small, rocky headland, Molly and Tina were sitting together, leaning against a drystone wall, talking about twitchers. The sun was reflected from the water and it was hot. Molly was sketching a small plant with a tiny yellow flower and Tina was watching the fulmars—heavy, ugly seabirds, aeronautically perfect, carried over the edge of the cliff by invisible currents. She thought that if she had a fleyg net she could catch them. She returned suddenly to her conversation with Molly.