They were all in the kitchen when he came downstairs. He could see from Mary’s eyes that she had been crying; she scarcely dared to look at him lest she should cry again. George was pretending to be cheerful. He was playing with the children, telling them how they must make a snow man in the drive. He said good-morning to Abner as though nothing had happened overnight, and Abner’s heart went out to him for his courage. Mary did not speak to him, but it seemed to him that her red eyes were reproachful. He felt that she probably considered him responsible for the tragedy, was conscious of his indirect share of guilt, and wished there were some way in which he could atone for it. He admired the manly way in which George took his trouble. Indeed he never felt so wholly friendly to George in his life. The elders breakfasted in silence, but the children talked incessantly, being excited by the snow. An overwhelming impulse to put himself right with Mary made Abner stop her when she was carrying the breakfast things into the scullery. ‘George has told you?’ he said. ‘Yes, he’s told me. I suppose there’s nothing to be done?’ ‘Naught that I know on,’ he replied. And she left him quickly, for she did not want him to see her crying again. George lit his pipe at the fire. ‘Funny to hear them kids,’ he said, with a half smile. ‘I mind it just the same once before. It was at Mary’s father’s funeral when his sister, her Aunt Rachel, brought her youngsters over from Bromyard.’ They were spared more of these harrowing contrasts, for the air was warm, and the children, carefully wrapped up by Mary, ran out to play in the glistening stuff. Mary did not reappear, and the two men sat on over the fire. Only George spoke from time to time. ‘It’s all of a piece with my luck,’ he said. ‘I reckon I was born unlucky. One thing and another. . . I don’t mind as long as it don’t come out what I was after in Lesswardine. She’s a decent woman and I wouldn’t have her damaged by it. I wish to God I’d stayed like she wanted me.’ He seemed to be waiting for Abner to speak, so that he felt bound to ask who the woman in Lesswardine was. ‘A young woman, a widow . . .’ said George. ‘I wouldn’t have her name mentioned if I could help it. She’s got enough to put up with. Probably I shan’t see her, so I’ll give you a note for her.’ He relapsed into silence. ‘The odds is,’ he went on, after a long pause, ‘this is the last time I shall see Wolfpits at night. Well, I’m not sorry for that, though there’s no denying that Mary’s been a good wife to me.’