She rode on down the steep, stony slope into the lane, and after hesitating for a moment she turned to the right where the lane was broadened by a border of rich grass and a hedge-topped bank. Here primroses lay snugly in their clumps of crinkled leaves and, wishing to feel the coolness of their slim, pale stalks between her fingers, Rose Mallett dismounted, slipped the reins over her arm and allowed her horse to feed while she stooped to the flowers. Then, in the full sunshine, with the soft breeze trying to loosen her hair, with the flowers in her bare hand, she straightened herself, consciously happy in the beauty of the day, in the freedom and strength of her body, in the smell of the earth and the sight of the country she had known and loved all her life. It was long since she had ridden here without encountering Francis Sales, who was bound up with her knowledge of the country, and who, quite evidently, wished to annex some of the love she lavished on it. This was a ridiculous desire which made her smile again, yet, while she was glad to be alone, she missed the attention of his presence. He had developed a capacity, which was like another sense, for finding her when she rode on his domains or in their neighbourhood, and she was surprised to feel a slight annoyance at his absence, an annoyance which, illogically, was increased by the sight of his black spaniel, the sure forerunner of his master, making his way through the hedge. A moment later the tall figure of Sales himself appeared above the budding twigs. He greeted her in the somewhat sulky manner to which she was accustomed. He was a young man with a grievance, and he looked at her as though to-day it were personified in her. She answered him cheerfully: “What a wonderful day!” “The day’s all right,” he said. Holding the primroses to her nose, she looked round. Catkins were swaying lightly on the willows, somewhere out of sight a tiny runnel of water gurgled, the horse ate noisily, the grass had a vividness of green like the concentrated thought of spring. “I don’t see how anything can be wrong this morning,” she said. “Ah, you’re lucky to think so,” he answered, gazing at her clear, pale profile. “Well,” she turned to ask patiently, “what is the matter with you?” “I’m worried.” “Has a cow died?” And ignoring his angry gesture, she went on: “I don’t think you take enough care of your property. Whenever I ride here I find you strolling about miserably, with a dog.” “That’s your fault.” “I don’t quite see why,” she said pleasantly; “but no doubt you are right. But has a cow died?” “Of course not. Why should it?” “They do, I suppose?” “It’s the old man. He isn’t well, and he’s badgering me to go away, to Canada, and learn more about farming.” “So you should.” “Of course you’d say so.” “Or do you think you can’t?” He missed, or ignored, her point. “He’s ill. I don’t want to leave him”; and in a louder voice he added, almost shouted, “I don’t want to leave you!”