‘Listen, Martin.’ She took his hand and started to speak hurriedly, for fear of more kissing. ‘About that truth business. What was I going to say....’ She steadied her voice. ‘Yes. If you tried to--compel the truth you’d expect a lie, wouldn’t you? That’s logic. I’d always expect a lie anyway. I mean ... I shouldn’t be at all surprised by it. I’d say it was my fault for not leaving you alone--not letting you be free enough--I’d think: well, I tried to coerce him, so he chose to deceive me. He was quite right.’ ‘A lie’s a lie,’ said Martin obstinately. ‘A lie’s a--What does that mean? It doesn’t mean anything. Unless you believe God watches and writes down in his notebook: Martin Fyfe told a lie on Monday. If this goes on he won’t get his harp. Do you? Truth! What’s truth? Why, half your so-called truths are built on lies. You can scarcely distinguish. I could--I bet I could--act a lie to you all my life and you’d never know it. _Be_ a lie.’ He flushed swiftly at the last words and said in a stiff way: ‘I daresay you could. You’re clever enough for anything and I’m a fool. But don’t try, please....’ ‘But there must be no compulsion, Martin!’ she insisted, horribly. ‘You wouldn’t try--to get at me--would you? You’d let me be, by myself? If you ever forced me when I was unwilling I’d tell lies and lies and congratulate myself for it. And I’d _never_ forgive you.’ He lit a cigarette and said, close-lipped, eyes fixed on the grass: ‘Does all this mean you want me to understand you’ve--changed your mind and wish to cry off?’ She threw out her arms dramatically, crying: ‘Can’t I say anything? Can’t I say anything without being misunderstood?... being....’ ‘I’ve never seen you like this, Judith.’ He got up and stood looking at her in despair. ‘It worries me. I don’t understand.’ ‘It’s not customary, I suppose, in an engaged young lady....’ She shut her eyes, and the tears scorched their lids bitterly. ‘Judy, what is it? Oh, Judy!’ ‘Oh, Martin!’ Hands pressed to forehead, voice a faint moan, she struggled on: ‘Only there are--some things--aren’t there?--there might be things which _can’t_ be told. Things one must forget--try to--at once----’ ‘Yes. Yes. If you say so,’ he soothed and whispered. ‘Because of the useless misery ... and because they’ve--withered up your heart--so that you couldn’t recall them--even if you tried.’ ‘Yes, my dear.’ ‘I’ve had--one or two unhappinesses in my life. Everybody has, I suppose. I want to forget them....’ ‘Of course, Judy, of course. You must _never_ tell me anything you’d rather not.’ She put her arms round his neck a moment. ‘Thank you, Martin.’ She dried her eyes and said: ‘I won’t be so silly any more.’ And if a doubt or a fear had begun to cloud his mind, his voice was none the less gentle, his eyes none the less trusting. He took her back to the garden and gathered sun-warmed strawberries for her; and they talked cheerfully together until lunch time.