Love is the most chastening of powers, and he did not even remember now that two days before he had told the wind and the twilight that he would certainly “roll and rollick in women” unless there was work for him to do.  She had a peculiarly swift and easy stride that went with him in his thoughts along the turf by the wayside halfway and more to Chichester.  He thought always of the two of them as being side by side.  His imagination became childishly romantic.  The open down about him with its scrub of thorn and yew became the wilderness of the world, and through it they went—­in armour, weightless armour—­and they wore long swords.  There was a breeze blowing and larks were singing and something, something dark and tortuous dashed suddenly in headlong flight from before their feet.  It was an ethical problem such as those Mrs. Skelmersdale nursed in her bosom.  But at the sight of Amanda it had straightened out—­and fled. . . .

And interweaving with such imaginings, he was some day to record, there were others.  She had brought back to his memory the fancies that had been aroused in his first reading of Plato’s republic; she made him think of those women Guardians, who were the friends and mates of men.  He wanted now to re-read that book and the laws.  He could not remember if the Guardians were done in the laws as well as in the republic.  He wished he had both these books in his rucksack, but as he had not, he decided he would hunt for them in Chichester.  When would he see Amanda again?  He would ask his mother to make the acquaintance of these very interesting people, but as they did not come to London very much it might be some time before he had a chance of seeing her again.  And, besides, he was going to America and India.  The prospect of an exploration of the world was still noble and attractive; but he realized it would stand very much in the way of his seeing more of Amanda.  Would it be a startling and unforgivable thing if presently he began to write to her?  Girls of that age and spirit living in out-of-the-way villages have been known to marry. . . .

Marriage didn’t at this stage strike Benham as an agreeable aspect of Amanda’s possibilities; it was an inconvenience; his mind was running in the direction of pedestrian tours in armour of no particular weight, amidst scenery of a romantic wildness. . . .

When he had gone to the house and taken his leave that morning it had seemed quite in the vein of the establishment that he should be received by Amanda alone and taken up the long garden before anybody else appeared, to see the daffodils and the early apple-trees in blossom and the pear-trees white and delicious.

Then he had taken his leave of them all and made his social tentatives.  Did they ever come to London?  When they did they must let his people know.  He would so like them to know his mother, Lady Marayne.  And so on with much gratitude.