refined to eat so roughly. The young man winced at the imputation.
“Have you had any dinner?” asked the daughter.
“No,” replied Syson. “It is too early. I shall be back at half-past one.”
“You call it lunch, don’t you?” asked the eldest son, almost ironical. He had once been an intimate friend of this young man.
“We’ll give Addy something when we’ve finished,” said the mother, an invalid, deprecating.
“No—don’t trouble. I don’t want to give you any trouble,” said Syson.
“You could allus live on fresh air an’ scenery,” laughed the youngest son, a lad of nineteen.
Syson went round the buildings, and into the orchard at the back of the house, where daffodils all along the hedgerow swung like yellow, ruffled birds on their perches. He loved the place extraordinarily, the hills ranging round, with bear-skin woods covering their giant shoulders, and small red farms like brooches clasping their garments; the blue streak of water in the valley, the bareness of the home pasture, the sound of myriad-threaded bird-singing, which went mostly unheard. To his last day, he would dream of this place, when he felt the sun on his face, or saw the small handfuls of snow between the winter twigs, or smelt the coming of spring.
Hilda was very womanly. In her presence he felt constrained. She was twenty-nine, as he was, but she seemed to him much older. He felt foolish, almost unreal, beside her. She was so static. As he was fingering some shed plum blossom on a low
