Amanda's people were so easy and intelligent and friendly, and Benham after his thirty hours of silence so freshly ready for human association, that in a very little while he could have imagined he had known and trusted this household for years. He had never met such people before, and yet there was something about them that seemed familiar--and then it occurred to him that something of their easy-going freedom was to be found in Russian novels. A photographic enlargement of somebody with a vegetarian expression of face and a special kind of slouch hat gave the atmosphere a flavour of Socialism, and a press and tools and stamps and pigments on an oak table in the corner suggested some such socialistic art as bookbinding. They were clearly 'advanced' people. And Amanda was tremendously important to them, she was their light, their pride, their most living thing. They focussed on her. When he talked to them all in general he talked to her in particular. He felt that some introduction of himself was due to these welcoming people. He tried to give it mixed with an itinerary and a sketch of his experiences. He praised the heather country and Harting Coombe and the Hartings. He told them that London had suddenly become intolerable--“In the spring sunshine.” “You live in London?” said Mrs. Wilder. Yes. And he had wanted to think things out. In London one could do no thinking-- “Here we do nothing else,” said Amanda. “Except dog-fights,” said the elder cousin. “I thought I would just wander and think and sleep in the open air. Have you ever tried to sleep in the open air?” “In the summer we all do,” said the younger cousin. “Amanda makes us. We go out on to the little lawn at the back.” “You see Amanda has some friends at Limpsfield. And there they all go out and camp and sleep in the woods.” “Of course,” reflected Mrs. Wilder, “in April it must be different.” “It IS different,” said Benham with feeling; “the night comes five hours too soon. And it comes wet.” He described his experiences and his flight to Shere and the kindly landlord and the cup of coffee. “And after that I thought with a vengeance.” “Do you write things?” asked Amanda abruptly, and it seemed to him with a note of hope. “No. No, it was just a private puzzle. It was something I couldn't get straight.” “And you have got it straight?” asked Amanda. “I think so.” “You were making up your mind about something?” “Amanda DEAR!” cried her mother. “Oh! I don't mind telling you,” said Benham. They seemed such unusual people that he was moved to unusual confidences. They had that effect one gets at times with strangers freshly met as though they were not really in the world. And there was something about Amanda that made him want to explain himself to her completely. “What I wanted to think about was what I should do with my life.” “Haven't you any WORK--?” asked the elder cousin. “None that I'm obliged to do.”