Roddy would smile his cynical smile because she had behaved just as women always did behave: so long as they hooked some poor devil--no matter whom--they were quite satisfied. And a damned fuss they made if a chap refused to be hooked. Martin would probably insist on being married in Church, and ask Roddy to be his best man. No. Poor Martin was not going to be able to save her. Perhaps, instead, she was going to destroy him. She went back to bed and tossed between her sheets till dawn. 6 Next morning Martin’s face of suppressed excitement shewed only too clearly how deeply the web was tangled now. She went with him after breakfast to visit his little farm. There was something in the brown soft earth, in the dark warmth of byres and stables, in the rich smell of animal breath and hay and soil mingled, something in the many secret, silent heads lifting, snuffing, reaching tentatively out, then tossing away from the outstretched hand; especially something in the clear golden-brown eyes curiously greeting you for a moment, then recoiling, relapsing into their animal aloofness: something that painfully suggested Roddy. He was like animals, electric and mysterious. The half-distrustful fleeting glance, the dark soft glossy head, the appealing grace: these were attributes he had in common with the farm dog, and the calves, the black kittens playing all over the stables, the dark chestnut colt in the meadow. There was no escape from him in all the world. She said to herself, moving her lips: ‘Sick fancies. Sick fancies.’ If she could see Roddy as a natural human being, then only could she hope to be free of him. She climbed a slope and sat on a stile at the top, waiting for Martin while he interviewed a farmer. Below lay the house and garden she had elected to share with Martin all her life: lovely, intricate patterns of roof and wall in the morning sun; enchanting shapes of violet shadow spilt across the mellow brick; charming lavender smoke spirals from the chimneys; exquisitely-ordered paths and lawns, hedges and flower-beds; two cedar trees motionless in their great planes of gloom on green brightness, green on gloom; and beyond the fruitful walls, the enfolding patiently-productive land which was Martin’s. You would be thought lucky indeed to live here. Perhaps the land might compensate, drug the mind and give it slow contented musings. Perhaps you could escape from Martin and feel alone with it.... But no: with its medium tints and mild companionable expression it was he himself. You could never get away from Martin here. As he came running up the hill, eagerly, like a cheerful dog, she watched him coldly. With a faint distaste she observed his agile leap on to the stile beside her. ‘Well?’ he burst out happily. ‘Well, Martin?’ ‘What are you thinking of, looking so solemn?’