Holding the primroses to her nose, she looked round. Catkins were
swaying lightly on the willows, somewhere out of sight a tiny runnel
of water gurgled, the horse ate noisily, the grass had a vividness of
green like the concentrated thought of spring.

'I don't see how anything can be wrong this morning,' she said.

'Ah, you're lucky to think so,' he answered, gazing at her clear, pale
profile.

'Well,' she turned to ask patiently, 'what is the matter with you?'

'I'm worried.'

'Has a cow died?' And ignoring his angry gesture, she went on: 'I
don't think you take enough care of your property. Whenever I ride
here I find you strolling about miserably, with a dog.'

'That's your fault.'

'I don't quite see why,' she said pleasantly; 'but no doubt you are
right. But has a cow died?'

'Of course not. Why should it?'

'They do, I suppose?'

'It's the old man. He isn't well, and he's badgering me to go away, to
Canada, and learn more about farming.'