But Janey knew that was not the matter, though she knew nothing more. After supper she put her arm through his, and drew him out into the garden. They walked up and down in front of Sparrow Hall. At first she had meant to ask him questions, but soon she realised that the questions would not come--only a great stillness between her and Nigel, and a fierce clutch of their hands. They walked up and down, up and down, breathing the thick scents of the garden--touched with autumn rottenness, sodden with rain and night. Gradually they pulled each other closer, till she felt the throb of his heart under her hand.... The next day Nigel worked hard with Len at weed-burning. It was strange what a lot of weed-burning there was to do, thought he--not only at Sparrow Hall, but at Wilderwick, and Swites Farm, and Golden Compasses, and the Two-Mile Cottages, and all those places from which little curls of blue, dream-scented smoke were drifting up against the sky. Men were burning the tangles of their summer gardens, they were piling into the flame those trailing sweets, now dead. For autumn was here, and winter was at hand, and a few dead things that must be burnt were all that remained of June. Nigel wondered if his June had not gone too, and if he had not better burn at once those few sweet, dead, tangled thoughts it had left him. He thought of the dim lane by Goatsluck Farm, with the glare of two motor lights on the hedges. He saw the puddles gleam, and Tony erect in the trickery of light and darkness, shapeless in his coat. Then across the aching silence of his heart came her words--"I can't bear it!--I--I'm so--disappointed." That was the end of June--and he ought to have expected it. His friendship with Tony Strife could never have lasted in a neighbourhood where both were known and talked about. It had ended a little suddenly, that was all. He did not reproach himself for deceiving her; he did not even regret it, though he guessed what she must think. The doorway of the house of light had stood open, and he had crept in like a beggar, knowing that he must soon be turned out, but resolute meanwhile to bask and be glad. But he wished she had not been "disappointed," that was so pathetic. Poor little girl! the memory of him would eat into her heart for a while. Girls of her age were righteous, and he had cheated her into friendship with unrighteousness. She would hate him for a bit. "I am so disappointed"--it seemed as if all his seething desires for goodness and peace had died into that little wail of outraged girlhood, and come back to haunt the empty house of his heart.