Then she went for a walk by the ponds above the Mill, where emerald reflections of alder and willow and birch were washed over the silver surface of the little mere, and a great wealth of green leapt again above the mats and tussocks of the sedge and rush. Golden kingcups flashed along the shallows, and bluebells wove their light into the banks above the water. Medora was actually engaged in the innocent business of picking flowers when she came plump upon Ned. They met at a narrow beach running into the lake under a limestone crag; and he, too, was there on pleasure, for he was fishing. Strangely enough, each was possessed with the same idea, and seemed to think it necessary to explain to the other the situation in which they stood revealed. Ned scowled and started; Medora blushed. While he stared, she spoke, without any preliminaries and as though no terrific events separated them. It seemed as if the trivial accident of being there picking flowers demanded first consideration. “You mustn’t think I’m here for pleasure,” she said. “I’m only killing time. We’ve got to wait your will, and I’ve got to go on living as best as I can. We’re at your mercy.” He, too, fastened on the moment. “As to that, same here. It’s true I’m fishing, but only to kill time, same as you. I’m not in any mood for pleasure, I can tell you, woman.” “I dare say not,” she answered. “People often fall back on little things when big things are hanging over them. I know how you feel, because I feel the same.” “You don’t know how I feel,” he answered. “And don’t you dare to say you do, please. What do you know about feeling? You’re the senseless rubbish that can hurt others, but you’re not built to suffer yourself more than a stinging nettle.” She felt no pang of anger at his rough challenge. After Kellock’s steadfast voice, the ferocious accents of Ned were rather agreeable than not. His tone for once was deep, as an angry bull. She liked it, and thought he looked exceedingly well. “As long as he don’t throw me in the water, I’ll speak to him,” thought Medora. Ned expected a stinging reply to his preliminary challenge, but she did not answer it. Instead, she spoke of an utter triviality. “What d’you think’s in my mind—to show how little things get hold on you? The first thing that come in it when I saw you so close was pleasure, because I was wearing a pink sunbonnet—that being your favourite colour for me. But Mr. Kellock don’t know what I wear.” He started with genuine astonishment. “What in thunder be women made of? You can babble like that and pick flowers, and be a hen devil all the time?” “If I am a hen devil, then I’m in the proper place for devils, and that’s hell,” she said. “D’you think a woman can’t pick flowers and wear pink and yet be broken to pieces heart and soul?”