Softly, without knowing that it was softly, he opened the door; softly, without knowing it was softly, he stepped to the hat-rack and took his black straw hat; softly, without knowing it was softly, he went out, and, unfaltering, hurried down the drive.

Three minutes later he appeared again, approaching the house faster than he had set forth.

He passed the hall door, ran up the stairs, and entered his wife’s room.

“Rose dear, Rose, can I do anything?”

Mrs. Barter put out her hand, a gleam of malice shot into her eyes.  Through her set lips came a vague murmur, and the words: 

“No, dear, nothing.  Better go for your walk.”

Mr. Barter pressed his lips to her quivering hand, and backed from the room.  Outside the door he struck at the air with his fist, and, running downstairs, was once more lost to sight.  Faster and faster he walked, leaving the village behind, and among the country sights and sounds and scents—­his nerves began to recover.  He was able to think again of other things:  of Cecil’s school report—­far from satisfactory; of old Hermon in the village, whom he suspected of overdoing his bronchitis with an eye to port; of the return match with Coldingham, and his belief that their left-hand bowler only wanted “hitting”; of the new edition of hymn-books, and the slackness of the upper village in attending church—­five households less honest and ductile than the rest, a foreign look about them, dark people, un-English.  In thinking of these things he forgot what he wanted to forget; but hearing the sound of wheels, he entered a field as though to examine the crops until the vehicle had passed.

It was not Wilson, but it might have been, and at the next turning he unconsciously branched off the Cornmarket road.

It was noon when he came within sight of Coldingham, six miles from Worsted Skeynes.  He would have enjoyed a glass of beer, but, unable to enter the public-house, he went into the churchyard instead.  He sat down on a bench beneath a sycamore opposite the Winlow graves, for Coldingham was Lord Montrossor’s seat, and it was here that all the Winlows lay.  Bees were busy above them in the branches, and Mr. Barter thought: 

‘Beautiful site.  We’ve nothing like this at Worsted Skeynes....’

But suddenly he found that he could not sit there and think.  Suppose his wife were to die!  It happened sometimes; the wife of John Tharp of Bletchingham had died in giving birth to her tenth child!  His forehead was wet, and he wiped it.  Casting an angry glance at the Winlow graves, he left the seat.

He went down by the further path, and came out on the green.  A cricket-match was going on, and in spite of himself the Rector stopped.  The Coldingham team were in the field.  Mr. Barter watched.  As he had thought, that left-hand bowler bowled a good pace, and “came in” from the off, but his length was poor, very poor!  A determined batsman would soon knock him off!  He moved into line with the wickets to see how much the fellow “came in,” and he grew so absorbed that he did not at first notice the Hon. Geoffrey Winlow in pads and a blue and green blazer, smoking a cigarette astride of a camp-stool.