“Am I? Well, there are worse things to be. Isn’t it funny, though, that we should never have met in all these years? I have never seen you, June, never seen how you are.” “You have, only you don’t remember. In church I used to watch you when we were both quite little, but you would hardly ever look at me, you were too grand. And afterwards.” “But then I must have seen you. Why did you look at me?” “There was nothing else to do.” “No, I suppose not. Where did you sit?” “To the left of your pew, just in front of the font. Don’t you remember?” “And what was the church like? I never really noticed it. Oh, it hurts to try and remember. I can only see bits of it, the spaces are so hard to fill up.” “Don’t. I hate that church too, only through the window on the right you could see an apple tree.” “Yes, I know. And there were birds.” “And apples in the autumn. Do you remember?” “Yes. Apples.” And he laughed. “Why do you laugh?” “I don’t know. But I did hate being made to go to church--though of course your father used to preach really well.” “Oh yes!” “Mamma ... He grew roses up the church, I think. I liked that very much. They were so pretty.” “An’ Mrs. Haye made him take them down again.” “Did she? I wonder why. Do you like roses?” “Very much. There used to be so many of them in that garden at the old Vicarage. Father was always crazy on them, an’ so was I.” “The rose is lovely, June, don’t you think? The poets sing so often of them. They call her the queen of flowers. ‘The damask colour of thy leaves.’ ‘Sweetness dwells in rosy bowers.’ ‘The blushing rose.’” “Oh yes. They were all over our garden.” “Then you must have lived in a way dear to the lyrical poets of the seventeenth century. How charming!” “I never read poetry. I haven’t time.” “Really? And the church must have been so pretty, buried in them. But then Mamma is very low church.” “How do you mean?” “Well, she does not like ornaments to a church. I think it is very silly of her, though Crayshaw goes too far with his lighted candles and so on.” “But what does it matter?” “It is popery, that is all. It is going to Rome.” “What’s that?” “Oh well, why talk about it?” “Father was so fond of his roses. Making him take them down like that was a shame.” “Listen to those bells, June. The sound comes tumbling over the country from so far off. It would be Purley church, I suppose.” “Father hates church bells. They hurt him.” “Where are we now?” “We are just coming to Mr. Brownlee’s farm.” “I thought so. Brownlee’s chickens are making such a noise.” It was a shame the way they had treated Father. “What a lovely material your dress is made of.” “Do you like it?” “So much. It is so soft, one’s hand glides over it and then sinks down in the folds of it drowned in it, June. What colour are you wearing?” “Blue.” “Yes, it would be blue.” “Poor boy, not being able to see.” “Call me John, dear, ‘boy’ is so young.” “Poor John.” “It has been awful without you.”