“Cows,” he reflected, “draw together in a field; ships in a calm; and we’re just the same when we’ve nothing else to do.  But why do we do it?—­is it to prevent ourselves from seeing to the bottom of things” (he stopped by a stream and began stirring it with his walking-stick and clouding the water with mud), “making cities and mountains and whole universes out of nothing, or do we really love each other, or do we, on the other hand, live in a state of perpetual uncertainty, knowing nothing, leaping from moment to moment as from world to world?—­which is, on the whole, the view I incline to.”

He jumped over the stream; Hirst went round and joined him, remarking that he had long ceased to look for the reason of any human action.

Half a mile further, they came to a group of plane trees and the salmon-pink farmhouse standing by the stream which had been chosen as meeting-place.  It was a shady spot, lying conveniently just where the hill sprung out from the flat.  Between the thin stems of the plane trees the young men could see little knots of donkeys pasturing, and a tall woman rubbing the nose of one of them, while another woman was kneeling by the stream lapping water out of her palms.

As they entered the shady place, Helen looked up and then held out her hand.

“I must introduce myself,” she said.  “I am Mrs. Ambrose.”

Having shaken hands, she said, “That’s my niece.”

Rachel approached awkwardly.  She held out her hand, but withdrew it. 
“It’s all wet,” she said.

Scarcely had they spoken, when the first carriage drew up.

The donkeys were quickly jerked into attention, and the second carriage arrived.  By degrees the grove filled with people—­the Elliots, the Thornburys, Mr. Venning and Susan, Miss Allan, Evelyn Murgatroyd, and Mr. Perrott.  Mr. Hirst acted the part of hoarse energetic sheep-dog.  By means of a few words of caustic Latin he had the animals marshalled, and by inclining a sharp shoulder he lifted the ladies.  “What Hewet fails to understand,” he remarked, “is that we must break the back of the ascent before midday.”  He was assisting a young lady, by name Evelyn Murgatroyd, as he spoke.  She rose light as a bubble to her seat.  With a feather drooping from a broad-brimmed hat, in white from top to toe, she looked like a gallant lady of the time of Charles the First leading royalist troops into action.

“Ride with me,” she commanded; and, as soon as Hirst had swung himself across a mule, the two started, leading the cavalcade.

“You’re not to call me Miss Murgatroyd.  I hate it,” she said.  “My name’s Evelyn.  What’s yours?”

“St. John,” he said.

“I like that,” said Evelyn.  “And what’s your friend’s name?”

“His initials being R. S. T., we call him Monk,” said Hirst.

“Oh, you’re all too clever,” she said.  “Which way?  Pick me a branch.  Let’s canter.”