“I had thought you were different,” she sobbed. “And now, now——” “Please, please,” he entreated. He was on the point of tearing off his beard and confessing everything there and then. But that, on second thoughts, would probably only make things worse. “Please, I promise.” In the end, she had consented to see him once again, provisionally, in Kew Gardens, on the following day. They were to meet at the little temple that stands on the hillock above the valley of the heathers. And now, duly, they had met. The Complete Man had been left at home in the top right-hand drawer, along with the ties and collars. She would prefer, he guessed, the Mild and Melancholy one; he was quite right. She had thought him ‘sweeter’ at a first glimpse. “I forgive you,” he said, and kissed her hand. “I forgive you.” Hand in hand they walked down towards the valley of the heaths. “I don’t know why you should be forgiving me,” she said, laughing. “It seems to me that I ought to be doing the forgiving. After yesterday.” She shook her head at him. “You made me so wretched.” “Ah, but you’ve already done your forgiving.” “You seem to take it very much for granted,” said Emily. “Don’t be too sure.” “But I am sure,” said Gumbril. “I can see——” Emily laughed again. “I feel happy,” she declared. “So do I.” “How green the grass is!” Green, green—after these long damp months it glowed in the sunlight, as though it were lighted from inside. “And the trees!” The pale, high, clot-polled trees of the English spring; the dark, symmetrical pine trees, islanded here and there on the lawns, each with its own separate profile against the sky and its own shadow, impenetrably dark or freckled with moving lights, on the grass at its feet. They walked on in silence. Gumbril took off his hat, breathed the soft air that smelt of the greenness of the garden.