It did not seem to matter much what six there would be, or whether there would be more than six or less.  All that mattered at this moment, as he inhaled the first incense of his cigarette, was that the rain was over for the present, that the sun shone from a blue sky, that he felt extraordinarily well and tranquil, and that dinner would soon be ready.  But of all these agreeable things what pleased him most was the tranquillity; to be alive here with the manure heap steaming in the sun, and the sow asleep by the house wall, and swallows settling on the eaves, was “Paradise enow.”  Somewhere deep down in him were streams of yearning and of horror, flowing like an underground river in the dark.  He yearned for Sylvia, he thought with horror of the two days in the trenches that had preceded this rest in the white-washed farm-house, and with horror he thought of the days and nights that would succeed it.  But both horror and yearnings were stupefied by the content that flooded the present moment.  No doubt it was reaction from what had gone before, but the reaction was complete.  Just now he asked for nothing but to sit in the sun and smoke his cigarette, and wait for dinner.  As far as he knew he did not think of anything particular; he just existed in the sun.

The wind must have shifted a little, for before long it came round the corner of the house, and slightly spoiled the mellow warmth of the sunshine.  This would never do.  The Epicurean in him revolted at the idea of losing a moment of this complete well-being, and arguing that if the wind blew here, it must be dead calm below the kitchen window on the other side of the house, he got off his rail and walked along the slippery bank at the edge of the flooded road in order to go there.  It was hard to keep his footing here, and his progress was slow, but he felt he would take any amount of trouble to avoid getting his feet wet in the flooded road.  Then there was a patch of kitchen-garden to cross, where the mud clung rather annoyingly to his instep, and, having gained the garden path, he very carefully wiped his boots and with a fallen twig dug away the clots of soil that stuck to the instep.

He found that he had been quite right in supposing that the air would be windless here, and full of great content he sat down with his back to the house wall.  A tortoise-shell butterfly, encouraged by the warmth, was flitting about among the Michaelmas daisies that bordered the path and settling on them, opening its wings to the genial sun.  Two or three bees buzzed there also; the summer-like tranquillity inserted into the middle of November squalls and rain, deluded them as well as Michael into living completely in the present hour.  Gnats hovered about.  One settled on Michael’s hand, where he instantly killed it, and was sorry he had done so.  For the time the booming of guns which had sounded incessantly all the morning to the east, stopped altogether, and absolute quiet reigned.  Had he not been so hungry, and so unable to get the idea of the stewpot out of his head, Michael would have been content to sit with his back to the sun-warmed wall for ever.