Again Joe turned and stared him in the face. The corporal smiled very slightly, but kindly. “There’ll be murder done one of these days,” said Joe, in a quiet, unimpassioned voice. “So long as it’s by daylight—” replied Albert. Then he went over, sat down by Joe, put his hand on his shoulder affectionately, and continued, “What is it, boy? What’s gone wrong? You can trust me, can’t you?” Joe turned and looked curiously at the face so near to his. “It’s nothing, that’s all,” he said laconically. Albert frowned. “Then who’s going to be murdered?—and who’s going to do the murdering?—me or you—which is it, boy?” He smiled gently at the stupid youth, looking straight at him all the while, into his eyes. Gradually the stupid, hunted, glowering look died out of Joe’s eyes. He turned his head aside, gently, as one rousing from a spell. “I don’t want her,” he said, with fierce resentment. “Then you needn’t have her,” said Albert. “What do you go for, boy?” But it wasn’t as simple as all that. Joe made no remark. “She’s a smart-looking girl. What’s wrong with her, my boy? I should have thought you were a lucky chap, myself.” “I don’t want ’er,” Joe barked, with ferocity and resentment. “Then tell her so and have done,” said Albert. He waited awhile. There was no response. “Why don’t you?” he added. “Because I don’t,” confessed Joe, sulkily. Albert pondered—rubbed his head. “You’re too soft-hearted, that’s where it is, boy. You want your mettle dipping in cold water, to temper it. You’re too soft-hearted—” He laid his arm affectionately across the shoulders of the younger man. Joe seemed to yield a little towards him. “When are you going to see her again?” Albert asked. For a long time there was no answer. “When is it, boy?” persisted the softened voice of the corporal. “Tomorrow,” confessed Joe. “Then let me go,” said Albert. “Let me go, will you?” The morrow was Sunday, a sunny day, but a cold evening. The sky was grey, the new foliage very green, but the air was chill and depressing. Albert walked briskly down the white road towards Beeley. He crossed a larch plantation, and followed a narrow by-road, where blue speedwell flowers fell from the banks into the dust. He walked swinging his cane, with mixed sensations. Then having gone a certain length, he turned and began to walk in the opposite direction. So he saw a young woman approaching him. She was wearing a wide hat of grey straw, and a loose, swinging dress of nigger-grey velvet. She walked with slow inevitability. Albert faltered a little as he approached her. Then he saluted her, and his roguish, slightly withered skin flushed. She was staring straight into his face. He fell in by her side, saying impudently: “Not so nice for a walk as it was, is it?” She only stared at him. He looked back at her. “You’ve seen me before, you know,” he said, grinning slightly. “Perhaps you never noticed me. Oh, I’m quite nice looking, in a quiet way, you know. What—?”