And she stood watching the sureness of his aim as he fired, knocking over the pitiful, bright-eyed, furry creatures one by one. She watched him, fascinated, conscious only of his health and strength and the perfect co-ordination of his body. She saw it as that of her friend’s lover, and in a yearning tenderness she thought of that hidden life away in Wolfpits. She could stand it no longer. ‘Give me the gun,’ she said. ‘Don’t shoot any more.’ She took the weapon from him and went over to join her sister in the hedge, where she sat watching the scene of slaughter in a dream. Then she got up suddenly, telling Ethel that the sun was too much for her, and went straight home to her bedroom. All afternoon she lay on her bed in the green light of a venetian blind. Her eyes burned and her head was splitting, but she knew that this was not altogether because of the sun. Later, when she had bathed her eyes in cold water and done her hair, she pulled out an old album in which there was a photograph taken at the Ludlow school where Mary Malpas had been her friend. It was a group ranged round the central figures of the two precise spinsters who kept the academy. She and Mary Condover were standing side by side: two solemn, self-conscious, childish faces with eyes staring straight at the photographer. Now Mary Condover was Mary Malpas, and had this man for a lover. Over in the secrecy of Wolfpits they loved. Ethel came knocking at the door with a cup of tea. The sound of her knock made Marion jump. It was not like her to be nervous. ‘They’ve counted the rabbits,’ said Ethel. ‘Thirty-two! That’s two more than last year. Dad’s ever so pleased. Is your headache better?’ ‘Yes, I’m all right,’ said Marion. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ For several days she saw next to nothing of Abner. One morning, however, her father sent him up to her with a message. She was making pastry in the kitchen; her hands and arms were white with flour and the heat of the range had flushed her face. Again she found that in his presence she lost her self-possession, and falling on an awkward silence she blurted out: ‘Well, how does it suit you?’ ‘Well enough,’ he replied. ‘Thanks to you, miss.’ ‘Oh, don’t thank _me_!’ she said, with a laugh. He was going, but she called him back to the kitchen door. ‘Don’t you find the walk to Wolfpits rather tiring?’ she asked. ‘It’s a fair step,’ he said. ‘But I don’t take much count of it.’ ‘Why don’t you stay up here till harvest’s over?’ she said. ‘You could make up some sort of a bed in the loft.’ He thanked her, but refused. ‘I find a good bit to do when I get home nights,’ he said. ‘They can’t get on in the house without me.’ ‘They?’ she said, with a laugh. ‘Ah, well, it won’t be for long.’