She was silent, and the firelight playing in her soft, lively eyes gave her a kind of mystery which for the first time allowed Reuben a glimpse into the sources of her attraction. She was utterly unlike anything there was or had been in his life, the only thing he knew that did not smell of earth. The pity of it was that he loved that strong-smelling earth so much. "Alice," he said suddenly--"Do you think as how you could ever care about Boarzell?" "No, I'm quite sure I couldn't." "Not ever?" "Never." "Why?" "Because I hate it. It's spoiling your life. It's making a beast and a maniac of you. You think of nothing--absolutely nothing--but a miserable rubbish-heap that most people would be throwing their old kettles on." "That's just the point, my gal. Where most föalkses 'ud be throwing old kettles, I shall be growing wheat." "And what good will that do you?" "Good!--when I've two hundred acres sown with grain!" "Yes, grain that's fertilised with the rotting remains of all that ought to have made your life good and sweet." "You wöan't understand. There's naun in the world means anything to me but my farm. Oh, Alice, if you could only see things wud my eyes and stand beside me instead of agäunst me." "Then there would be no more friendship between us. What unites us is the fact that we are fighting each other." "Döan't talk rubbidge, liddle gal. It's because I see, all the fight there is in you that I'd sooner you fought for me than agäunst me. Couldn't you try, Alice?" His voice had sunk very low, almost to sweetness. A soft flurry of pink went over her face, and her eyelids drooped. Then suddenly she braced herself, pulled herself taut, grew combative again, though her voice shook. "No, Reuben, I could never do anything but fight your schemes. I think you are wasting and spoiling your life, and there's no use expecting me to stand by you." He now realised the full extent of his peril, because for the first time he saw her position unmasked. She would never beguile him with the thought that she could help him in his life's desire; she would not alter the essential flavour of their relationship to suit his taste--rather she would force him to swallow it, she would subdue by strength and not by stealth, and fight him to the end. He must escape, for if he surrendered now the battle was over, and he would have betrayed Boarzell the loved to something he loved less--loved less, he knew it, though he wavered. He rose to his feet. The kitchen was dark, with eddying sweeps of shadow in the corners which the firelight caressed--while a single star put faint ghostly romance into the window. "I--I must be gitting back home." Alice rose too, and for a moment he was surprised that she did not try to keep him; instead, she said: "It's late." He moved a step or two towards the door, and suddenly she added in a low broken voice: "But not too late."