It was a sparkling and exhilarating morning. Sarah Greene and Roger Dodds shared in its exhilaration as they started out before eleven. They had made no professions of pleasure beyond Roger's casual comment, "A lovely day, isn't it?" as he came in a little late and sat down to breakfast. But each was conscious of the other's happiness, and at times when Mrs. Greene caught Roger's eye, or saw him lift his head suddenly intent as a fiercer gust battered on the windows, she felt that they were conspirators who shared a secret too exquisite to be alluded to. This feeling persisted. Never before had Roger seemed so responsive. As they walked at a good pace down the grass path, his hidden excitement communicated itself to her, and her delight was obvious to him. I've never felt like this with anyone but Hugh, she thought. It's like a discovery. I've never really known Roger before, and now, just when Lynton and I need him, he suddenly unfolds. It's too surprising. A small toad hopped clumsily across their path; his legs as he took off for each leap seemed incredibly long, and his protruding eyes were startled. They stopped to watch him, and laughed. Roger, too, was conscious that a marked change had taken place in their relationship; it was more alive, and at the same time more comfortable. It struck neither of them as strange that this should be so; everything seemed perfectly natural to the ill-assorted pair; the small woman of seventy, pinched, sallow, dressed in nondescript clothes, but walking bravely in her sensible shoes, and the tall untidy young man, with his inexpressive body and face. Mrs. Greene did not attempt to explain to herself this forward move in their intimacy. She accepted it as a belated discovery of Roger's real quality. But as they left the grass walk and trudged through the busy rustling woods, still not talking, Roger hit on a solution that satisfied him. It's the link of succession, he decided; there must be a link of either love or hate between a person who is going to hand over the thing he values most highly to someone who values it too. And Aunt Sarah has neither hate nor resentment for me, so that this particular situation which might be painful is oddly enough quite easy. "What are you thinking, Roger?" asked Mrs. Greene suddenly. He turned his head to smile down at her. "I was thinking how very comfortable we were," he answered simply. "I thought that a few minutes ago. I'm very comfortable altogether, Roger. Mary said to me the other day that she thought I had no worries, and really, you know, it's perfectly true." "How big exactly is the estate?" asked Roger inconsequently. "Two thousand, five hundred and thirty-four acres," Mrs. Greene answered precisely. "That ought to provide you with a worry or two," suggested Roger. "No, it doesn't. I have occasional anxieties but no real worries." They walked on in silence till Roger said abruptly, "I hate London."