“Has it?” “Everything is black. Before, even when one shut one’s eyes the eyelids were red if one were outside, but light now has been cut off from within. Nothing but black. One gets desperate sometimes, you know. There are times when I would like to kill myself, really, I mean.” “Poor John.” “But your eyelids when you closed them would be such a delicious colour for the lovely eyes inside.” “Would they? Oh, but then you have never seen my eyes.” “Perhaps not, but I can feel them just the same.” “Do you?” “Yes, they are so calm, so quiet. Such a lovely blue.” “But they are dark brown.” “Oh, then your dress does not match?” “No, I suppose not.” “But what does that matter? They are such lovely brown eyes. And sometimes they light up and burn, perhaps?” “How do you mean?” “Well ... But have you ever been in love?” “I don’t know.” “Maybe they are burning now?” “N-no, I don’t think so.” “How sad. And mine, if they had not been removed, would have burned so ardently.” “What’s ardently?” “You know, hotly, pas---- No.” This was awkward. “But I like your eyes, whether they are brown or blue.” “You are really quite nice, John, an’ I think I like you.” “No more than that?” “Perhaps.” And his hand was in hers. Better to ignore it at first. “Perhaps?” “Well, I don’t know.” “You are strange, June, so distant, so cold. I don’t believe you really like me at all, no, really not.” “Mind, here’s a gate. Be careful.” “Where is the gate? You are cruel, you know. You don’t care a bit. Oh, here it is; good.” “Care about what?” “What about? Why, me, I mean. But this will be where we have to cross the road. Then we go through the gate which should be to the right there. Shut this one; that is the home farm we are leaving?” “Have you got a farm all your own?” “Yes, and why not?” “You must be rich.” “I am not so sure about that.” “It must be wonderful to be rich.” “It must be wonderful to be poor.” “How do you mean? You’ve never been poor in all your life. So how can you tell?” “But poor people are always much happier than rich people on the cinema. The cinema used to be the only way I had to see life.” “But what do you think of scrubbing floors all day, and of cooking food, and of having to look after your father who is ill, and all that?” “Is he ill, June?” “Yes, at least he thinks he is.” “I’m sorry. But you won’t always be poor?” “As far as I can see.” “But one day a fairy prince may spirit you away to a place of luxury. Think of it.” “Gracious, no! Why should he?” “He would have every inducement. These things often happen, you know, here and there.” “I don’t think so.” “But I do. One of these days ... we ... perhaps. Well; but I am sorry he is ill.” “Oh, I don’t think he is as ill as all that. He is a poet an’ imagines things.” “A poet? Does he write poetry?”