and, softly crawling up the straw, left the note by her head. He hastened to a farm-house. The farm-wife was inclined to be curious. O curious farm-wife, you of the cream-thick Essex speech and the shuffling feet, you were brave indeed to face Bill Wrenn the Great, with his curt self-possession, for he was on a mission for Istra, and he cared not for the goggling eyes of all England. What though he was a bunny-faced man with an innocuous mustache? Istra would be awakening hungry. That was why he bullied you into selling him a stew-pan and a bundle of faggots along with the tea and eggs and a bread loaf and a jar of the marmalade your husband’s farm had been making these two hundred years. And you should have had coffee for him, not tea, woman of Essex. When he returned to their outdoor inn the late afternoon glow lay along the rich fields that sloped down from their well-concealed nook. Istra was still asleep, but her cheek now lay wistfully on the crook of her thin arm. He looked at the auburn-framed paleness of her face, its lines of thought and ambition, unmasked, unprotected by the swift changes of expression which defended her while she was awake. He sobbed. If he could only make her happy! But he was afraid of her moods. He built a fire by a brooklet beyond the willows, boiled the eggs and toasted the bread and made the tea, with cream ready in a jar. He remembered boyhood camping days in Parthenon and old camp lore. He returned to the stack and called, “Istra—oh, Is-tra!” She shook her head, nestled closer into the straw, then sat up, her hair about her shoulders. She smiled and called down: “Good morning. Why, it’s afternoon! Did you sleep well, dear?” “Yes. Did you? Gee, I hope you did!” “Never better in my life. I’m so sleepy yet. But comfy. I needed a quiet sleep outdoors, and it’s so peaceful here. Breakfast! I roar for breakfast! Where’s the nearest house?” “Got breakfast all ready.” “You’re a dear!” She went to wash in the brook, and came back with eyes dancing and hair trim, and they laughed over breakfast, glancing down the slope of golden hazy fields. Only once did Istra pass out of the land of their intimacy into some hinterland of analysis—when she looked at him as he drank his tea aloud out of the stew-pan, and wondered: “Is this really you here with me? But you _aren’t_ a boulevardier. I must say I don’t understand what you’re doing here at all…. Nor a caveman, either. I don’t understand it…. But you _sha’n’t_ be worried by bad Istra. Let’s see; we went to grammar-school together.” “Yes, and we were in college. Don’t you remember when I was baseball captain? You don’t? Gee, you got a bad memory!” At which she smiled properly, and they were away for Suffolk again.