“No, no better.” She looked at his face, so deeply tanned that his brown hair and moustache looked pale by contrast and his eyes extraordinarily blue. His appearance always pleased her. It was almost a part of the landscape, but the landscape was full of change, of mystery in spite of its familiarity, and she found him dull, monotonous, with a sort of stupidity which was not without attraction, but which would be wearying for a whole life. She had no desire to be his wife and the mistress of Sales Hall, its fields and woods and farms. The world was big, the possibilities in life were infinite, and she felt she was fit, perhaps destined, to play a larger part than this he offered her, and if she could, as she foresaw, only play a greater one through the agency of some man, she must have that man colossal, for she was only twenty-three years old. “No,” she said firmly, “we are not suited to each other.” “You are to me.” His angry helplessness seemed to darken the sunlight. “You are to me. No one else. I’ve known you all my life. Rose, think about it!” “I shall—but I shan’t change. I don’t believe you really love me, Francis, but you want some one you can growl at legitimately. I don’t think you would find me satisfactory. Another woman might enjoy the privilege.” He made a wild movement, startling to the horse. “You don’t understand me!” “Well, then, that ought to settle it. And now I’m going.” “Don’t go,” he pleaded. “And look here, you might have loosened your girths.” “I might, but I didn’t expect to be here so long. I didn’t expect to be so pleasantly entertained.” She put out her hand for his shoulder, and, bending unwillingly, he received her foot. “You needn’t have said that,” he muttered, “about being entertained.” “You’re so ungracious, Francis.” “I can’t help it when I care so much.” From her high seat she looked at him with a sort of envy. “It must be rather nice to feel anything deeply enough to make you rude.” “You torture me,” he said. She was hurt by the sight of his suffering, she wished she could give him what he wanted, she felt as though she were injuring a child, yet her youth resented his childishness: it claimed a passion capable of overwhelming her. She hardened a little. “Good-bye,” she said, “and if I were you, I should certainly go abroad.” “I shall!” he threatened her. “Good-bye, then,” she repeated amiably. “Don’t go,” he begged in a low voice. “Rose, I don’t believe you know what you are doing, and you’ve always loved the country, you’ve always loved our place. You like our house. You told me once you envied us our rookery.” “Yes, I love the rookery,” she said. “And you’d have your own stables and as many horses as you wanted—” “And milk from our own cows! And home-laid eggs!” “Ah, you’re laughing at me. You always do.” “So you see,” she said, bending a little towards him, “I shouldn’t make a very good companion.”