"Why does he always deny me?" she said to herself. "Why is it nothing to him, what I am?"
And Tom Brangwen, blue-eyed and warm, sat in opposition to the youth.
"How long are you stopping?" the young husband asked his wife.
"Not very long," she said.
"Get your tea, lad," said Tom Brangwen. "Are you itchin' to be off the moment you enter?"
They talked of trivial things. Through the open door the level rays of sunset poured in, shining on the floor. A grey hen appeared stepping swiftly in the doorway, pecking, and the light through her comb and her wattles made an oriflamme tossed here and there, as she went, her grey body was like a ghost.
Anna, watching, threw scraps of bread, and she felt the child flame within her. She seemed to remember again forgotten, burning, far-off things.
"Where was I born, mother?" she asked.
"In London."
"And was my father"—she spoke of him as if he were merely a strange name: she could never connect herself with him—"was he dark?"
"He had dark-brown hair and dark eyes and a fresh colouring. He went bald, rather bald, when he was quite young," replied the mother, also as if telling a tale which was just old imagination.
"Was he good-looking?"
"Yes—he was very good-looking—rather small. I have never seen an Englishman who looked like him."
"Why?"
"He was"—the mother made a quick, running movement with her hands—"his figure was alive and changing—it was never fixed. He was not in the least steady—like a running stream."
It flashed over the youth—Anna too was like a running stream. Instantly he was in love with her again.
Tom Brangwen was frightened. His heart always filled with fear, fear of the unknown, when he heard his women speak of their bygone men as of strangers they had known in passing and had taken leave of again.
In the room, there came a silence and a singleness over all
