To this day, then, that sudden kink in the straight line across the upper pasture remains a mystery to Sophie and George. Nor can they tell why Skim Winsh, who came to his cottage under Dutton Shaw most musically drunk at 10.45 P.M of every Saturday night, as his father had done before him, sang no more at the bottom of the garden steps, where Sophie always feared he would break his neck. The path was undoubtedly an ancient right of way, and at 10.45 P.M. on Saturdays Skim remembered it was his duty to posterity to keep it open--till Mrs. Cloke spoke to him once. She spoke likewise to her daughter Mary, sewing maid at Pardons, and to Mary's best new friend, the five-foot-seven imported London house-maid, who taught Mary to trim hats, and found the country dullish. But there was no noise--at no time was there any noise--and when Sophie walked abroad she met no one in her path unless she had signified a wish that way. Then they appeared to protest that all was well with them and their children, their chickens, their roofs, their water-supply, and their sons in the police or the railway service. “But don't you find it dull, dear?” said George, loyally doing his best not to worry as the months went by. “I've been so busy putting my house in order I haven't had time to think,” said she. “Do you?” “No--no. If I could only be sure of you.” She turned on the green drawing-room's couch (it was Empire, not Heppelwhite after all), and laid aside a list of linen and blankets. “It has changed everything, hasn't it?” she whispered. “Oh, Lord, yes. But I still think if we went back to Baltimore--” “And missed our first real summer together. No thank you, me lord.” “But we're absolutely alone.” “Isn't that what I'm doing my best to remedy? Don't you worry. I like it--like it to the marrow of my little bones. You don't realize what her house means to a woman. We thought we were living in it last year, but we hadn't begun to. Don't you rejoice in your study, George?” “I prefer being here with you.” He sat down on the floor by the couch and took her hand. “Seven,” she said, as the French clock struck. “Year before last you'd just be coming back from business.” He winced at the recollection, then laughed. “Business! I've been at work ten solid hours to-day.” “Where did you lunch? With the Conants?” “No; at Dutton Shaw, sitting on a log, with my feet in a swamp. But we've found out where the old spring is, and we're going to pipe it down to Gale Anstey next year.” “I'll come and see to-morrow. Oh, please open the door, dear. I want to look down the passage. Isn't that corner by the stair-head lovely where the sun strikes in?” She looked through half-closed eyes at the vista of ivory-white and pale green all steeped in liquid gold.