“Have you realized,” she asked one morning, “that we've been here absolutely alone for the last thirty-four days?” “Have you counted them?” he asked. “Did you like them?” she replied. “I must have. I didn't think about them. Yes, I have. Six months ago I should have fretted myself sick. Remember at Cairo? I've only had two or three bad times. Am I getting better, or is it senile decay?” “Climate, all climate.” Sophie swung her new-bought English boots, as she sat on the stile overlooking Friars Pardon, behind the Clokes's barn. “One must take hold of things though,” he said, “if it's only to keep one's hand in.” His eyes did not flicker now as they swept the empty fields. “Mustn't one?” “Lay out a Morristown links over Gale Anstey. I dare say you could hire it.” “No, I'm not as English as that--nor as Morristown. Cloke says all the farms here could be made to pay.” “Well, I'm Anastasia in the 'Treasure of Franchard.' I'm content to be alive and purr. There's no hurry.” “No.” He smiled. “All the same, I'm going to see after my mail.” “You promised you wouldn't have any.” “There's some business coming through that's amusing me. Honest. It doesn't get on my nerves at all.” “Want a secretary?” “No, thanks, old thing! Isn't that quite English?” “Too English! Go away.” But none the less in broad daylight she returned the kiss. “I'm off to Pardons. I haven't been to the house for nearly a week.” “How've you decided to furnish Jane Elphick's bedroom?” he laughed, for it had come to be a permanent Castle in Spain between them. “Black Chinese furniture and yellow silk brocade,” she answered, and ran downhill. She scattered a few cows at a gap with a flourish of a ground-ash that Iggulden had cut for her a week ago, and singing as she passed under the holmoaks, sought the farm-house at the back of Friars Pardon. The old man was not to be found, and she knocked at his half-opened door, for she needed him to fill her idle forenoon. A blue-eyed sheep-dog, a new friend, and Rambler's old enemy, crawled out and besought her to enter. Iggulden sat in his chair by the fire, a thistle-spud between his knees, his head drooped. Though she had never seen death before, her heart, that missed a beat, told her that he was dead. She did not speak or cry, but stood outside the door, and the dog licked her hand. When he threw up his nose, she heard herself saying: “Don't howl! Please don't begin to howl, Scottie, or I shall run away!”