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 could hear his breathing and feel his coat brushing her shoulder.

He seated himself, slowly, without a break in the silence of his meditation.

She knew that something wonderful and beautiful was going to happen.  It had happened; it was happening now, growing more certain and more real with every minute that she waited for John to say something.  If nothing changed, if this minute that she was living now prolonged itself, if it went on for ever and ever, that would be happiness enough.

If she could keep still like this for ever—­Any movement would be dangerous.  She was afraid almost to breathe.

Then she remembered.  Of course, she would have to tell him.

She could feel the jerk and throb in John’s breathing, measuring off the moments of his silence.  Her thoughts came and went.  “When he says he cares for me I shall have to tell him”—­“This is going on for ever.  If he cared for me he would have said it before now.”—­“It doesn’t matter.  He can care or not as he likes.  Nothing can stop my caring.”

Then she was aware of her will, breaking through her peace, going out towards him, fastening on his mind to make him care; to make him say he cared, now, this minute.  She was aware of her hands, clenched and unclenched, pressing the sharp edge of the seat into their palms as she dragged back her will.

She was quiet now.

John was looking at his own loose clasped hands and smiling.  “Yes,” he said, “yes.  Yes.”  It was as if he had said, “This will go on.  Nothing more than this can ever happen.  But as long as we live it will go on.”

She had a sense almost of relief.

“Charlotte—­”

“John—­”

“You asked me why I came here.  You must have known why.”

“I didn’t.  I don’t.”

“Can’t you think?”

“No, John.  I’ve left off thinking. My thinking’s never any use.”

“If you did think you’d know it was you.”

“Me?”

“If it wasn’t you just at first it was your face.  There are faces that do things to you, that hurt you when they’re not there.  Faces of people you don’t know in the least.  You see them once and they never let you alone till you’ve seen them again.  They draw you after them, back and back.  You’d commit any sin just to see them again once....