They came out on the farther side of the churchyard, where a little path leads away into the hawthorns of the New Sewer.  A faint sunshine was spotting it through the branches, and suddenly Joanna’s heart grew warm and heavy with love.  She wanted some sheltered corner where she could hold his hand, feel his rough coat-sleeve against her cheek—­or, dearer still, carry his head on her bosom, that heavenly weight of a man’s head, with the coarse, springing hair to pull and stroke....  She put her arm into his.

“Bertie, let’s go and sit over there in the shade.”

He smiled at the innocence of her contrivance.

“Shall we?” he said, teasing her—­“won’t it make us late for dinner?”

“We don’t have dinner on Sundays—­we have supper at eight, so as to let the gals go to church.”

Her eyes looked, serious and troubled, into his.  He pressed her hand.

“You darling thing.”

They moved away out of the shadow of the church, following the little path down to the channel’s bank.  The water was of a clear, limpid green, new-flushed with the tide, with a faint stickle moving down it, carrying the white, fallen petals of the may.  The banks were rich with loosestrife and meadowsweet, and as they walked on, the arching of hawthorn and willow made of the stream and the path beside it a little tunnel of shade and scent.

The distant farmyard sounds which spoke of Ivychurch behind them gradually faded into a thick silence.

Joanna could feel Bertie leaning against her as they walked, he was playing with her hand, locking and unlocking her fingers with his.  Weren’t men queer ... the sudden way they melted at a touch?  Martin had been like that—­losing his funny sulks....  And now Bertie was just the same.  She felt convinced that in one moment ... in two ... he would ask her to be his wife....

“Let’s sit down for a bit,” she suggested.

They sat down by the water side, crushing the meadowsweet till its sickliness grew almost fierce with bruising.  She sidled into his arms, and her own crept round him.  “Bertie ...” she whispered.  Her heart was throbbing quickly, and, as it were, very high—­in her throat—­choking her.  She began to tremble.  Looking up she saw his eyes above her, gazing down at her out of a mist—­everything seemed misty, trees and sky and sunshine and his dear face....  She was holding him very tight, so tight that she could feel his collar-bones bruising her arms.  He was kissing her now, and his kisses were like blows.  She suddenly became afraid, and struggled.

“Jo, Jo—­don’t be a fool—­don’t put me off, now ... you can’t, I tell you.”

But she had come to herself.

“No—­let me go.  I ... it’s late—­I’ve got to go home.”

She was strong enough to push him from her, and scrambled to her feet.  They both stood facing each other in the trodden streamside flowers.

“I beg your pardon,” he said at last.