would not need many years to rot through and break and let the soil
slither all down again in a heap towards the stream-bed. But there you
are. He had not been brought up to come to grips with anything, and he
thought it would do. Nay, he did not think there was anything else except
little temporary contrivances possible, he who had such a passion for his
old enduring cottage, and for the old enduring things of the bygone
England. Curious that the sense of permanency in the past had such a hold
over him, whilst in the present he was all amateurish and sketchy.

Winifred could not criticize him. Town-bred, everything seemed to her
splendid, and the very digging and shovelling itself seemed romantic. But
neither Egbert nor she yet realized the difference between work and
romance.

Godfrey Marshall, her father, was at first perfectly pleased with the
menage down at Crockham Cottage. He thought Egbert was wonderful, the
many things he accomplished, and he was gratified by the glow of physical
passion between the two young people. To the man who in London still
worked hard to keep steady his modest fortune, the thought of this young
couple digging away and loving one another down at Crockham Cottage,
buried deep among the commons and marshes, near the pale-showing bulk of
the downs, was like a chapter of living romance. And they drew the
sustenance for their fire of passion from him, from the old man. It was
he who fed their flame. He triumphed secretly in the thought. And it was
to her father that Winifred still turned, as the one source of all surety
and life and support. She loved Egbert with passion. But behind her was
the power of her father. It was the power of her father she referred to,
whenever she needed to refer. It never occurred to her to refer to
Egbert, if she were in difficulty or doubt. No, in all the _serious_
matters she depended on her father.