She heard the house door open and shut. The Burtons came down the flagged
path between the lavender bushes, leaving them to their peace before
milking time.

Looking down she saw John's eyes blinking up at her through their lashes.
His chest showed a red-brown V in the open neck of his sweater. He had
been quiet a long time. His voice came up out of his quietness, sudden
and queer.

"Keep your head like that one minute--looking down. I want your
eyelids.... Now I know."

"What?"

"What you're like. You're like Jeanne d'Arc.... There's a picture--the
photo of a stone head, I think--in a helmet, looking down, with
big drooped eyelids. If it isn't Jeanne it ought to be. Anyhow it's
you.... That's what's been bothering me. I thought it was just because
you had black hair bobbed like a fifteen century page. But it isn't that.
It's her forehead and her blunt nose, and her innocent, heroic chin. And
the thick, beautiful mouth.... And the look--as if she could see behind
her eyelids--dreadful things going to happen to her. All the butchery."

"I don't see any dreadful things going to happen to me."

"No. Her sight was second sight; and your sight is memory. You never
forget things.... I shall call you Jeanne. You ought to wear armour and a
helmet." His voice ceased and began again. "What are you thinking of?"

"I don't know. I don't think much, ever."