irony: 'You dunna keep bees, do yer, Mr. James?'

* * * * *

The hills loomed in the dusk over the show-ground. They were of a cold
and terrific colour, neither purple nor black nor grey, but partaking
of all. Kingly, mournful, threatening, they dominated the life below as
the race dominates the individual. Hazel gazed up at them. She stood in
the attitude of one listening, for in her ears was a voice that she had
never heard before, a deep inflexible voice that urged her to do--she
knew not what. She looked up at the round wooded hill that hid God's
Little Mountain--so high, so cold for a poor child to climb. She felt
that the life there would be too righteous, too well-mannered. The
thought of it suddenly made her homesick for dirt and the Callow.

She thought of Undern crouched under its hill like a toad. She
remembered its echoing rooms and the sound as of dresses rustling that
came along the passages while she put on the green gown. Undern made
her more homesick than the parsonage.

Edward had gone. She had said she wanted to stay with her father, and
Edward had thought her a sweet daughter and had acquiesced, though
sadly.

Now she was awaiting Reddin. The dancing had not begun, though the tent
was ready. Yellow light flowed from every gap in the canvas, and Hazel
felt very forlorn out in the dark; for light seemed her natural sphere.
As she stood there, looking very small and slight, she had a cowering
air. Always, when she stood under a tree or sheltered from the rain,
she had this look of a refugee, furtive and brow-beaten. When she ran