The family from Birmingham had frightened him. So he sat at her table in
the bow. They talked. About places--places. Places they had seen and
hadn't seen; places they wanted to see, and the ways you could get to
places. He trusted to luck; he risked things; he was out, he said, for
risk. She steered by the sun, by instinct, by the map in her head. She
remembered. But you could buy maps. He bought one the next day.

They went for long walks together. She found out the field paths. And
they talked. Long, innocent conversations. He told her about himself. He
came from Coventry. His father was a motor car manufacturer; that was why
_he_ liked tramping.

She told him she was going to learn farming. You could be happy all day
long looking after animals. Swinging up on the big bare backs of cart
horses and riding them to water; milking cows and feeding calves. And
lambs. When their mothers were dead. They would run to you then, and
climb into your lap and sit there--sucking your fingers.

As they came in and went out together the family from Birmingham
glared at them.

"Did you see how they glared?"

"Do you mind?" he said.

"Not a bit."

"No more do I. It doesn't matter what people like that do. Their souls
are horrible. They leave a glairy trail everywhere they go. If they were