A huge voice came as a whisper from across the river. “’ere!” it said, frenziedly, “’ere!” And another roar overwhelmed it, then a shrill whistle, and silence. “It is no good, June, I must go. And June must go too, if there is anything in a name. Think of your August, and of how exciting that will be. It will come right one day.” “Will it?” “You see, you cannot leave your Father; what would he come to? It is your duty to stand by him. It is good for one, too.” How unpleasant it was giving this sort of good advice. She ought to stay down here, from every point of view it was best that she should. And when the man died he would see what could be done. Yes, he really would. “We will write to each other, June, and everything will seem better to-morrow.” “It won’t.” “Yes, it will. Poor June. But think, we have had one good time anyway, you and I, haven’t we? There is one good thing behind us anyway, isn’t there?” “Don’t go, don’t go-o.” God, she was weeping. Well, that had finished it, he could not go. Poor June, and what a beast he was. “All right, June, I won’t go. It’s all right, June, I’m not going. I’m not going, June, so it’s all right.” “I’m so mis-erable.” “But I am not going.” “It’s” (sniff) “not that.” “Aren’t you glad I am not going?” “No. Yes.” “Well, then?” Why did one always talk baby-talk to someone who was crying? “There, June, are you better now?” “Yes.” Sniff. “The chickens’ll be starving.” Sniff. “I’d better go home.” “Oh, you must not go home yet. June, I love you so.” “Do you?” Sniff. “Yes, I ...” “But, John, I think you’d better go to London, after all. It’ll be better for you there. I was only crying because of everything. I’m better now ...” What did she mean? What was in her mind? What was this, what was this? “... fond of me, and I must help Father with his book, his wonderful book which will come out next year, we’re hoping. An’ you’ll go to London and do whatever you’re going to do there, I know you will. I expect you will be a great man one day. There’s the chickens. I’ve got to feed them an’ look for eggs, too, for supper. Shall I walk you back or can you get home alone now? For I’ve got to hurry.” “No, I can get back alone all right by the roads. But, June, don’t go like this. What does it mean,--I mean how do you ...?” “Oh, you go to London. Father an’ I’ve got the book to write. He’ll show you all what a mistake you made. So long, John.” “Good-bye, Joan.” Another roar came from the football crowd, an angry sound. A dog had been barking monotonously for ever so long. “But, June,” he shouted, to the wood, “June, what do you--June, I--June ...” But there was no answer, and he began feeling his way down the ride. How strange it all was, what could she mean? One’s head felt in an absolute turmoil, one didn’t know what to think. He felt ill. * * * * *