It seemed a long time since she had crossed the river, yet the only change was in the new green of the trees splashing the side of the gorge. The gulls were still quarrelling for food on the muddy banks, children and perambulators, horses and carts, were passing over the bridge as on her first day in Radstowe, but there was now no Francis Sales on his fine horse. The sun was bright but clouds were being blown by a wind with a sharp breath, and she went quickly lest it should rain before her business was accomplished. She had no fear of not finding Francis Sales: in such things her luck never failed her, and she came upon him even sooner than she had expected in the outermost of his fields. He stood beside the gate, scrutinizing a flock of sheep and lambs and talking to the shepherd, and he turned at the sound of her footsteps on the road. She smiled sweetly: rather stiffly he raised his hand to his hat and in that moment she recognized that he had no welcome for her. He had changed; he was grave though he was not sullen, and she said to herself with her ready bitterness, “Ah, he has reformed, now that there’s no need. That’s what they all do.” But her smile did not fade. She leaned over the gate in a friendly manner and asked him about the lambs. How old were they? She hoped he would not have them killed: they were too sweet. She had never touched one in her life. Why did they get so ugly afterwards? It was hard to believe those little things with faces like kittens, or like flowers, were the children of their lumpy mothers. “Do you think I could catch one if I came inside?” she asked. “Come inside,” he said, “but the shepherd shall catch one for you.” She stroked the curly wool, she pulled the apprehensive ears, she uttered absurdities and, glancing up to see if Sales were laughing at her charming folly, she saw that he was examining his flock with the practical interest of a farmer. He was apparently considering some technical point; he had not been listening to her at all. She hated that lamb, she hoped he would kill it and all the rest, and she decided to eat mutton in future with voracity. “I was going to pick primroses,” she said. “Are there any in these fields?” “I don’t know. Can you spare me a few minutes? I want to speak to you.” Her heart, which had been thumping with a sickening slowness, quickened its beats. Perhaps she had been mistaken, perhaps his serious manner was that of a great occasion, and she saw herself returning to Nelson Lodge and treating her Aunt Rose with gentle tact. “Shall we sit on the gate?” she asked. “I’d rather walk across the field. I’ve been wanting to see you—since that night. I owe you an apology.” She dared not speak for fear of making a mistake, and she waited, walking slowly beside him, her eyes downcast. “An apology—for the whole thing,” he said. She looked up. “What whole thing?” “The way I behaved with you.” “Oh, that! I don’t see why you should apologize,” she said.