"You don't really like farming: you only think you ought to. What do you really like?" "Going away. Getting out of this confounded country into the South of France. I'm not really happy, Mary, till I'm pottering about my garden at Agaye." She looked where he was looking. Two drawings above the chimney-piece. A chain of red hills swung out into a blue sea. The Estérel. A pink and white house on the terrace of a hill. House and hill blazing out sunshine. Agaye. Agaye. Pottering about his garden at Agaye. He was happy there. "Well, you can get away. To Agaye." "Not as much as I should like. My wife can't stand more than six weeks of it." "So that you aren't really happy at Agaye.... I thought I was the only person who felt like that. Miserable because I've been doing my own things instead of sewing, or reading to Mamma." "That's the way conscience makes cowards of us all." "If it was even _my_ conscience. But it's Mamma's. And her conscience was Grandmamma's. And Grandmamma's--" "And mine?" "Isn't yours a sort of landlord's conscience? Your father's?" "No. No. It's mine all right. My youth had a conscience." "Are you sure it wasn't put off with somebody else's?" "Perhaps. At Oxford we were all social reformers. The collective conscience of the group, perhaps. I wasn't strong enough to rise to it. Wasn't strong enough to resist it...." Don't you do that, my child. Find out what you want, and when you see your chance coming, take it. Don't funk it." "I don't see _any_ chance of getting away." "Where do you want to get away to?" "There. Agaye." He leaned forward. His eyes glittered. "You'd like that?" "I'd like it more than anything on earth." "Then," he said, "some day you'll go there." "No. Don't let's talk about it. I shall never go." "I don't see why not. I don't really see why not." She shook her head. "No. That sort of thing doesn't happen." III. She stitched and stitched, making new underclothing. It was going to happen. Summer and Christmas and the New Year had gone. In another week it would happen. She would be sitting with the Sutcliffes in the Paris-Lyons-Mediterranée express, going with them to Agaye. She had to have new underclothing. They would be two days in Paris. They would pass, in the train, through Dijon, Avignon, Toulon and Cannes, then back to Agaye. She had no idea what it would be like. Only the sounds, Agaye, rose up out of the other sounds, like a song, a slender foreign song, bright and clear, that you could sing without knowing what it meant. She would stay there with the Sutcliffes, for weeks and weeks, in the pink and white house on the terrace. Perhaps they would go on into Italy. Mr. Sutcliffe was going to send to Cook's for the tickets to-morrow. Expensive, well-fitting clothes had come from Durlingham, so that nothing could prevent it happening.