“For the latter, you see,” she replied, “I am not responsible.” As they neared the top of the hill a few spots of rain fell. “You know,” said Helena, “if it begins it will continue all night. Look at that!” She pointed to the great dark reservoir of cloud ahead. “Had we better go back?” he asked. “Well, we will go on and find a thick tree; then we can shelter till we see how it turns out. We are not far from the cars here.” They walked on and on. The raindrops fell more thickly, then thinned away. “It is exactly a year today,” she said, as they-walked on the round shoulder of the down with an oak-wood on the left hand. “Exactly!” “What anniversary is it, then?” he inquired. “Exactly a year today, Siegmund and I walked here—by the day, Thursday. We went through the larch-wood. Have you ever been through the larch-wood?” “No.” “We will go, then,” she said. “History repeats itself,” he remarked. “How?” she asked calmly. He was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked. “I see no repetition,” she added. “No,” he exclaimed bitingly; “you are right!” They went on in silence. As they drew near a farm they saw the men unloading a last wagon of hay on to a very brown stack. He sniffed the air. Though he was angry, he spoke. “They got that hay rather damp,” he said. “Can’t you smell it—like hot tobacco and sandal-wood?” “What, is that the stack?” she asked. “Yes, it’s always like that when it’s picked damp.” The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned on to a narrow path by the side of the field he went ahead. Leaning over the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as butter, full of scent; then he waited for her. She was hanging her head, looking in the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers without speaking. She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and looked up at him over the blossoms with her beautiful, beseeching blue eyes. He smiled gently to her. “Isn’t it nice?” he said. “Aren’t they fine bits?” She took them without answering, and put one piece carefully in her dress. It was quite against her rule to wear a flower. He took his place by her side. “I always like the gold-green of cut fields,” he said. “They seem to give off sunshine even when the sky’s greyer than a tabby cat.” She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing field on her right. They entered the larch-wood. There the chill wind was changed into sound. Like a restless insect he hovered about her, like a butterfly whose antennae flicker and twitch sensitively as they gather intelligence, touching the aura, as it were, of the female. He was exceedingly delicate in his handling of her.