In the evenings, when the child was asleep in the cradle beside their bed, they would go across the road to the willow-pond, and sit or stroll there in the March dusk. Those were wonderful days of spring, a March which was almost May, with sweet slumberous winds, so thick and hazy that the grumble of the unceasing guns was lost in them, and the War’s heart-beat never broke the meadow’s stillness. Soft primrose fogs trailed over Horse Eye Marshes under the rising stars, and away beyond them on the sea a siren crooned, like the voice of the twilight and the deep.... When the sky was dark round the big stars, and Orion’s sword hung above Molash Woods, they would go in to their supper in the lamplight, to the tender, intimate talk of their evening hours, and then up, with big reeling shadows moving before them on beam and plaster in the candlelight, to the dim spring-smelling room where their baby slept, and where Thyrza would sleep with her hair spread on the pillow like a bed of celandines, and Tom with his brown, war-calloused hand in the soft clasp of hers, and his head in the hollow of her breast. Tom, of course, paid many visits to his family at Worge. He found Mus’ Beatup an invalid in the kitchen, his leg propped on a chair before him. Owing to his constitution it had mended slowly, but four months of forced soberness had worked a wonderful result in toning up his whole body, so that in spite of his illness his eye was brighter, his hand steadier and his voice clearer than at any time in Tom’s memory. Unfortunately, the boredom and privations of his state had only increased that “objectiousness” of disposition which Mrs. Beatup had deplored, and Tom had to sit and listen to long harangues, in which the War, the Christian Religion, God, Govunmunt, Monogamy, and War Agricultural Committees were toppled together in a common ruin. Nell no longer argued with him, his flicks and cuts had no power to wound, and he soon gave up trying to stir her into the little furies which had led to so many rousing arguments. It was queer how she had changed.... Her chief arguments were with her mother, who seemed to think that the ceremony of marriage was bound automatically to create an abstract love of housekeeping in the female breast. She was astonished to find that Nell had now no greater love for making beds and washing dishes than in the days of her spinsterhood. “I never heard of a married woman as cudn’t maake a sago pudden,” she said to Tom. “She’d maake it fur her husband quick enough,” said Tom with a grin. “Well, Steve’s here most Sundays, and she’s never maade him naun but a ginger-cake, and she used to maake that before she wur wed.” “Wait till she’s got a liddle home of her own ... that’ll be all the difference, woan’t it, Nell?” Nell smiled faintly. “Would you believe it, Tom?” said Mrs. Beatup, “but when we want a suet pudden now we’ve got to git it off a meat-card.”