What puzzled Abner more was the strangeness of Marion’s attitude. He did not attach any great importance to her breakdown in the farm kitchen and the tender moment that followed: that was the kind of thing that might happen with any woman: but he did find it rather shabby of her to abandon him as soon as he was down on his luck, for he had always felt that she was his friend and supporter, and knew, indeed, that he had owed his job to her from the beginning. Still, he believed that it was in keeping with human—and even more with feminine nature—to kick a man when he was down. The school in which he had been brought up had left him with few romantic illusions: so, instead of brooding over her defection, he went on steadily with his work until the day of his departure. On the last evening they met, for one moment only. She came into the byre at milking-time and took up her old station in the doorway, watching him as he worked. He looked round and found her standing there: it was too dark for him to see her face. She handed him the pails in silence, and when he had finished and stood wiping his hands on his trousers, she said, almost timidly: ‘This is the last time.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry to go.’ ‘I’m sorry too,’ she said, though she could not be sure that she was speaking the truth. ‘You’ve been a great help to us.’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘If that old Daisy hadn’t gone and catched cold,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked abruptly. ‘That’s a hard one to answer,’ he said. ‘I wish I could help you.’ She found it difficult to speak without wounding his delicacy. ‘If you’re in want of money at any time . . .’ She felt it was her duty to give him anything she possessed. It was necessary for her own self-esteem that she should not feel under any obligation to him. ‘Money’s no use to me,’ he said, falling back on one of Mick Connor’s characteristic phrases. ‘But if ever you’re in need?’ she persisted. ‘I know that Mrs Malpas and her children are dependent on you.’ It was the second time that she had ever mentioned Mary’s name. She compelled herself to do so now because in this way she could make it quite clear that the incident of the other night was forgotten and that he could not build on it. She wanted to clear herself at any price. Even as she spoke the consciousness of her own motives filled her with shame. She held out her hand. ‘You won’t forget that, will you?’ she said. ‘No, Miss Marion, you’ve been a good friend to me.’ And he took her hand in his.