“Well, I can’t come, you see, because I’ve got to go.”

“Very well,” said Lady Casterley, “then trot along.”

Little Ann, tightening her lips, walked to the next colony of Nemesia, and bent over the colonists with concentration, showing clearly that she had found something more interesting than had yet been encountered.

“Ha!” said Lady Casterley, and led on at her brisk pace towards the avenue.

All the way down the drive she discoursed on woodcraft, glancing sharply at the trees.  Forestry—­she said-like building, and all other pursuits which required, faith and patient industry, was a lost art in this second-hand age.  She had made Barbara’s grandfather practise it, so that at Catton (her country place) and even at Ravensham, the trees were worth looking at.  Here, at Monkland, they were monstrously neglected.  To have the finest Italian cypress in the country, for example, and not take more care of it, was a downright scandal!

Barbara listened, smiling lazily.  Granny was so amusing in her energy and precision, and her turns of speech, so deliberately homespun, as if she—­than whom none could better use a stiff and polished phrase, or the refinements of the French language—­were determined to take what liberties she liked.  To the girl, haunted still by the feeling that she could fly, almost drunk on the sweetness of the air that summer morning, it seemed funny that anyone should be like that.  Then for a second she saw her grandmother’s face in repose, off guard, grim with anxious purpose, as if questioning its hold on life; and in one of those flashes of intuition which come to women—­even when young and conquering like Barbara—­she felt suddenly sorry, as though she had caught sight of the pale spectre never yet seen by her.  “Poor old dear,” she thought; “what a pity to be old!”

But they had entered the footpath crossing three long meadows which climbed up towards Mrs. Noel’s.  It was so golden-sweet here amongst the million tiny saffron cups frosted with lingering dewshine; there was such flying glory in the limes and ash-trees; so delicate a scent from the late whins and may-flower; and, on every tree a greybird calling to be sorry was not possible!

In the far corner of the first field a chestnut mare was standing, with ears pricked at some distant sound whose charm she alone perceived.  On viewing the intruders, she laid those ears back, and a little vicious star gleamed out at the corner of her eye.  They passed her and entered the second field.  Half way across, Barbara said quietly: 

“Granny, that’s a bull!”

It was indeed an enormous bull, who had been standing behind a clump of bushes.  He was moving slowly towards them, still distant about two hundred yards; a great red beast, with the huge development of neck and front which makes the bull, of all living creatures, the symbol of brute force.

Lady Casterley envisaged him severely.