They went to their usual parade ground, marching to and fro between the Bethel and the Shop, and Ivy’s confidence revived with her defiance of public opinion. “They’ll see I doan’t care naun fur wot they think,” she said to herself, and met boldly the outraged eyes of Bourners and Sindens and Putlands. It was a hot day, and there was a smell of dust in the air, which felt heavy and thick. The sun was dripping on Sunday Street, making the red roofs swim and dazzle in a yellow haze; the leaves of the big oaks by the forge drooped with dust, and the Bethel’s stare was hot and angry, as if its lidless eyes ached in the glow. Ivy decided that she might now end her ordeal of the burning ploughshare. She had strutted up and down a dozen times in front of her neighbours, defying their gossip, their blame and their pity. “I done it—now I can git shut of un,” and her gaze of mixed pain and contempt wandered up to his brown face as he walked beside her, talking unheard in his booming Northumberland voice. “It’s middling hot in the Street—let’s git into the Spinney.” He kindled at once—it would be good to sit with her on trampled hazel leaves, to lie with their faces close and the green spurge waving round their heads in a filter of sunlight. Usually these suggestions came from him, by the rules of courting, but he loved her for the boldness which could break all rule even as it lacked all craft. He slid his hand along her arm, and pressed it, with joy at the quiver she gave. The Twelve Pound spinney stood about thirty yards back from the Street, behind the Bethel, and was reached by a little path and a stile opposite the Horselunges. As they passed the inn, Ivy saw Mrs. Breathing opening the door and the shutters for the Sunday’s short traffic, and at the same time saw ahead of her a dusty khaki figure ambling towards the sign with the particular padding unsoldierly tread of Jerry Sumption. “He’s on the drink, now’s he knows as he can’t git me,” she thought—“the bad gipsy.” Then a feeling of regret and hopelessness came over her. Here were two men whose love she had muddled—one who had hurt her and one whom she had hurt. Was love all hurting and sorrow? For the first time the careless game of a girl’s years became almost a sinister thing. Her hand dragged at Seagrim’s arm, as if unconsciously and despite herself her body appealed to the man her soul despised ... then she lifted her eyes, and looked into Jerry’s as he passed, trotting by with hanging head and queer look, like a mad dog ... yes, love was a tar’ble game.