A copper gleam of sunlight came suddenly from under the rim of a leaden cloud. For a moment it flared on the hedge, making the wet leaves shine. It gave a metallic look to the evening--instead of sweetening the soaked landscape it seemed only to make it sadder, with a harsh, reckless sadness it had not worn in the gloom. Quentin put up his hand and picked one of the shining sprays, to fasten it in Janey's jacket. Whenever he saw beautiful things in the hedges, he wanted to give them to Janey. He never wanted to give her the beautiful things he saw in shops; he did not, like so many men, stare into shop windows, longing to see her in those clothes, those jewels, and great hats like the moon. But if ever he found a sudden splash of bryony in the hedge, or a flush of bloody-twig, or honeysuckle, or nuts, he wanted to pick them for her. When it was May he had often met her in Furnace Wood with his arms full of hawthorn, in June he had brought her dog-roses, in August ripe ears of barley, in September wild-apple boughs; and now in October he picked her sprays of red, sodden leaves. There was a little nut on this spray--he picked it off and cracked it with his teeth, and put the kernel into her mouth. Then suddenly the sunlight faded, and a soft rush of gloom swept up the valley of the hammer ponds. "Nigel came home last night," said Janet, breaking the silence that had lasted with the sun. "How is he looking?" "He's changed, Quentin." "It's aged him, of course." "That isn't so terrible--we could have endured that, we'd expected it. The awful thing is that it's made him so childish. Sometimes you'd really think he was a child, by the way he speaks--and goes on." "He'll soon be all right--you'll heal him, Janey." "I don't see how I'm going to. The worst thing is that he's so reserved with me and Len. It isn't that he doesn't talk and tell us things, but I know he doesn't tell us the things that really matter. Oh, Quentin"--turning suddenly to him--"I feel such a wretch, having a secret from the boys when Nigel's like this." "You've lost your logic, sweet--or, rather, thank God, you never had any. Your brother's secrets ought to make you worry less about your own." "You don't understand--it's just the other way round." She sighed deeply, and her pain irritated him. "You have the power to end it if you like--you're not so badly off as I am. You can tell your brothers any day you choose--they can't interfere." "Of course not--but it would make them miserable. They'd be miserable enough at the idea of my marrying any one, and leaving them--and as for marrying you----" "Oh, I know they hate me," broke in Quentin. "And they despise me because I haven't got their health and muscle. They hate me for what I have got--their land; and they despise me for what I haven't got--their muscle." Janet's eyes filled. She knew that he was wretchedly jealous of her brothers, and it hurt her more than anything else. She laid her hand timidly on his arm.