Rose used often to come to Odiam, where she was at first rather shy of Reuben's children, all of whom were older than herself. In time, however, she outgrew her shyness, and became of an exceedingly mad and romping disposition. She ran about the house like a wild thing, she dropped blackberries into Caro's cream, she tickled Pete's neck with wisps of hay, she danced in the yard with Jemmy. Reuben grew desperate--he felt the hopelessness of capturing this baby who played games with his children; and yet Rose was in some ways so much older than they--she loved to say risky things in front of the innocent Caro, and howled with laughter when she could not understand--she loved to prod and baffle the two boys, who in this respect were nearly as inexperienced as their sister. Then, on the walk home with Reuben, over Boarzell, she would retail these feats of hers with gusto, she would invite his kisses, sting up his passion--she tormented him with her extraordinary combinations of childishness and experience, shyness and abandonment, innocence and corruption. In time the state of his own mind reduced Reuben to silence about his longings. He somehow lost the power of picturing himself married to this turbulent, bewildering creature, half-woman, half-child. He clung to her in silent kisses; leading her home over Boarzell, he would suddenly turn and smother her in his arms, while his breast heaved with griefs and sighings he had not known in the earlier weeks of his courtship. Rose noticed this difference, and it piqued her. She began to miss his continual protestations. Sometimes she tried to stir them up again, but her bafflings had reacted on herself; she handled him clumsily, he was too mazed to respond to her flicks. Then she became sulky, irritable, slightly tyrannous--even stinting her kisses. One night early in October he was taking her home. They had crossed Boarzell, and were walking through the lanes that tangle the valley north of Udimore. She walked with her arm conventionally resting on his, her profile demure in the starlight. He felt tired, not in his body, but in his mind--somehow life seemed very aimless and gloomy; he despised himself because he craved for her arms, for her light thoughtless sympathy. "Why döan't you speak to me, Rose?" "I was thinking." "Wot about?" "Oh, clothes and things." He stopped suddenly in their walk, as he had often done, and seized her in his arms, swinging her off her feet, burying his face in her wraps to kiss her neck. She kicked and fought him like a wild cat, and at last he dropped her. "Why wöan't you let me kiss you?" "Because I won't." She walked quickly, almost running, and he had to stride to keep up with her. "You're justabout cruel," he said furiously. "And so are you." "Wot have I done?" "You've changed your mind about wanting to marry me." He stared at her with his mouth open. "Rose...." "Well, don't gape at me. You know you have." "I justabout haven't. It's you----"