‘Yes,’ he continued, ’sometimes I can’t help feeling uneasy about him.  You know, he seems not made for a town life exactly:  he gets very queer over it sometimes, I think.  Perhaps he’ll be better when he’s married to Adelaide.’

A half-impatient feeling arose in her, like that which possesses a sick person when he hears a recently-struck hour struck again by a slow clock.  She had lived further on.

‘Everything depends upon whether he loves her,’ she said tremulously.

’He used to—­he doesn’t show it so much now; but that’s because he’s older.  You see, it was several years ago they first walked together as young man and young woman.  She’s altered too from what she was when he first courted her.’

‘How, sir?’

’O, she’s more sensible by half.  When he used to write to her she’d creep up the lane and look back over her shoulder, and slide out the letter, and read a word and stand in thought looking at the hills and seeing none.  Then the cuckoo would cry—­away the letter would slip, and she’d start wi’ fright at the mere bird, and have a red skin before the quickest man among ye could say, “Blood rush up."’

He came forward with the money and dropped it into her hand.  His thoughts were still with Edward, and he absently took her little fingers in his as he said, earnestly and ingenuously—­

’’Tis so seldom I get a gentlewoman to speak to that I can’t help speaking to you, Miss Graye, on my fears for Edward; I sometimes am afraid that he’ll never get on—­that he’ll die poor and despised under the worst mental conditions, a keen sense of having been passed in the race by men whose brains are nothing to his own, all through his seeing too far into things—­being discontented with make-shifts—­thinking o’ perfection in things, and then sickened that there’s no such thing as perfection.  I shan’t be sorry to see him marry, since it may settle him down and do him good. . . .  Ay, we’ll hope for the best.’

He let go her hand and accompanied her to the door saying, ’If you should care to walk this way and talk to an old man once now and then, it will be a great delight to him, Miss Graye.  Good-evening to ye. . . .  Ah look! a thunderstorm is brewing—­be quick home.  Or shall I step up with you?’

‘No, thank you, Mr. Springrove.  Good evening,’ she said in a low voice, and hurried away.  One thought still possessed her; Edward had trifled with her love.

4.  FIVE TO SIX P.M.

She followed the road into a bower of trees, overhanging it so densely that the pass appeared like a rabbit’s burrow, and presently reached a side entrance to the park.  The clouds rose more rapidly than the farmer had anticipated:  the sheep moved in a trail, and complained incoherently.  Livid grey shades, like those of the modern French painters, made a mystery of the remote and dark parts of the vista, and seemed to insist upon a suspension of breath.  Before she was half-way across the park the thunder rumbled distinctly.