The townfolk, generally, were content with themselves and the conditions under which they strolled from the cradle to the grave. Susan Biddlecombe, for instance, thanked God morning and evening because her lines were cast in pleasant places. Till she met Quinney, her mind had dwelt placidly in the immediate present. He hurled it into the future with a breathless phrase adumbrating incredible possibilities. But that was later, after the death of his father, who might have lived another twenty years. Before that great piece of good fortune Joe indulged in talk that was very small indeed; and the one excitement incidental to her engagement was its secrecy. Being a pretty girl, and half a lady, she had visualized marriage as a tremendous change, possibly for the better, quite possibly for the worse. But during these dreams she beheld herself as herself, never reckoning that her ideas and ideals might make another woman of her under conditions and conventions other than what she so thoroughly understood. She was romantic; but who dares to define romance. What does it mean to a girl like Susan Biddlecombe? Adventure? Yes. She was thrilled to the core when Quinney kissed her for the first time behind the parlour door; and her heart beat delightfully fast whenever she approached their trysting-place in a secluded corner of the Close. Romance inspired her with the happy thought of corresponding with her lover in cypher. The engagement ring became a treasure indeed, because she dared not wear it except at night. From the first she had gallantly faced the fact that her Joe did not look romantic, but there was a flavour of the bold buccaneer about his speech, and a sparkle in his eye quite captivating. His firm, masterful grip of a girl’s waist was most satisfying, although it provoked protest. She had murmured, "Please—don’t!" And to this he replied tempestuously, "Sue, darling, you like it; you know you like it. What’s the use of trying to flimflam me?" He was not to be silenced till she whispered blushing that she did like it. Awfully? Yes—awfully. The man pressed the point, asking astounding questions. What ought to be the tale of kisses, for example? Could a maid stand five hundred of ’em? Why not try the experiment at the first opportunity? In this primitive fashion he captured her. On the following Sunday the lovers found a cottage which seemed to be the real, right thing. It was set in a small garden, surrounded by a small holly hedge, and flanked on the north-east by a row of tall elms. Behind the cottage was a plot of ground, which included a superb chestnut tree, with low branches, upon which, as Susan observed, hammocks could be swung. "Hammocks?" repeated Quinney. "On Sunday," said Susan, "in the summer, we can lie in hammocks and think of how hard we work during the week. It will be heavenly." "By Gum! You have ideas, Sue." "Mother always said I was too romantic."