So, though Lawford made no answer, it was agreed. Before noon the three of them had set out on their walk across the fields. And after rambling on just as caprice took them, past reddening blackberry bushes and copses of hazel, and flaming beech, they sat down to spread out their meal on the slope of a hill, overlooking quiet ploughed fields and grazing cattle. Herbert stretched himself with his back to the earth, and his placid face to the pale vacant sky, while Lawford, even more dispirited after his walk, wandered up to the crest of the hill. At the foot of the hill, upon the other side, lay a farm and its out-buildings, and a pool of water beneath a group of elms. It was vacant in the sunlight, and the water vividly green with a scum of weed. And about half a mile beyond stood a cluster of cottages and an old towered church. He gazed idly down, listening vaguely to the wailing of a curlew flitting anxiously to and fro above the broken solitude of its green hill. And it seemed as if a thin and dark cloud began to be quietly withdrawn from over his eyes. Hill and wailing cry and barn and water faded out. And he was staring as if in an endless stillness at an open window against which the sun was beating in a bristling torrent of gold, while out of the garden beyond came the voice of some evening bird singing with such an unspeakable ecstasy of grief it seemed it must be perched upon the confines of another world. The light gathered to a radiance almost intolerable, driving back with its raining beams some memory, forlorn, remorseless, remote. His body stood dark and senseless, rocking in the air on the hillside as if bereft of its spirit. Then his hands were drawn over his eyes. He turned unsteadily and made his way, as if through a thick, drizzling haze, slowly back. ‘What is that—there?’ he said almost menacingly, standing with bloodshot eyes looking down upon Herbert. ‘“That!”—what?’ said Herbert, glancing up startled from his book. ‘Why, what’s wrong, Lawford?’ ‘That,’ said Lawford sullenly, yet with a faintly mournful cadence in his voice; ‘those fields and that old empty farm—that village over there? Why did you bring me here?’ Grisel had not stirred. ‘The village...’ ‘Ssh!’ she said, catching her brother’s sleeve; ‘that’s Detcham, yes, Detcham.’ Lawford turned wide vacant eyes on her. He shook his head and shuddered. ‘No, no; not Detcham. I know it; I know it; but it has gone out of my mind. Not Detcham; I’ve been there before; don’t look at me. Horrible, horrible. It takes me back—I can’t think. I stood there, trying, trying; it’s all in a blur. Don’t ask me—a dream.’ Grisel leaned forward and touched his hand. ‘Don’t think; don’t even try. Why should you? We can’t; we _mustn’t_ go back.’