afternoon. Every evening when the farm work was done they would sit there
together, inside the round screen of the beeches.

The farm people wouldn't disturb them; not even Mr. Burton, now, looking
in, smiling the fat, benevolent smile that blessed them, and going away;
the very calves were so well used to them that they had left off pushing
their noses through the tree trunks and staring.

John's window faced her where she sat; she could see his head passing and
passing across the black window space. To her sharp, waiting soul Barrow
Farm took on a sudden poignant and foreign beauty. The house was yellow
where the rain had soaked it, gold yellow like a sun-struck southern
house, under the black plume of the firs, a yellow that made the sky's
blue solid and thick. The grass, bright green after the rain, stretched
with the tight smoothness of velvet over the slopes and ridges of the
field. A stripe of darker green, where their feet had trodden down the
blades, led straight as a sheep's track from the garden gate to the
opening of the ring.

To think that she had dreamed bad dreams in a place like this. She
thought: "There must be something wrong about me, anyhow, to dream bad
dreams about John."

John was coming up the field, walking slowly, his hands thrust in his
pockets, his eyes fixed steadily on a point in front of him that his mind
didn't see, drawn back in some intense contemplation. He strolled into
the ring so slowly that she had time to note the meditative gestures of
his shoulders and chin. He stood beside her, very straight and tall, not
speaking, still hiding his hands in his pockets, keeping up to the last
minute his pose of indestructible tranquillity. He was so close that she