"My darling!" she exclaimed in a protesting voice, "what is the matter with your hat! You've done something queer to the crown. And I don't like that collar and tie, it's so mannish looking." Joan ignored the criticism. "I'm going for a walk with Richard, Mother, I'll be back in time to help you to dress at twelve o'clock." Mrs. Ogden looked surprised. "Is he staying long?" she inquired. "I don't know, I haven't asked him; but it'll be all right if I'm back at twelve, won't it?" "Well, yes, I suppose so. I was going to get up a little earlier this morning, so as to get as much benefit from the air as possible; still, never mind." Joan hesitated; the long years of habit tugged at her, but suddenly her mind was made up. "I'll be back at twelve, darling, you'd better stay quiet until then." 2 She hurried over her breakfast. Richard was waiting for her in the hall and came forward as she left the dining-room. "Ah! That's better," he said. She looked at him questioningly. "What's better?" "Why, you are. You look more like yourself this morning." "Do I? It's only the clothes, I always look odd in the evening." He looked amused. "Well, perhaps you do, a little," he admitted. They strolled down the drive and through the gates into the little town. The air was full of West Country softness, it smelt of brine and earth and growing things. "If we keep straight on," she said, "we shall come to the Valley of the Rocks." "I don't care where we come to, my dear, as long as we get to a place where we can talk in peace. I've a great deal to hear, you know." She turned to study him. He was so familiar and yet such a complete stranger. His voice was the same rather eager, imperative thing that she remembered, and she thought that his eyes had not changed at all. But for the rest he was bigger, astonishingly so; his shoulders, his face, the whole of him, seemed overpoweringly large this morning. And he looked old. In the bright light she could see that his face was deeply lined, and that little pouches had formed under his eyes. But it struck her that she had never seen a more utterly kind expression; it was a charming age that had come upon Richard, an age full of sympathy and tolerance. They passed the Convent of the Poor Clares with its white walls inset with Della Robbia plaques of the Innocents in their swaddling clothes. Richard glanced at them and smiled. "I rather love them, don't you, Joan? They're a kind of symbol of the childhood of the world." She followed the direction of his eyes, but the plaques did not strike her as being very interesting. Perhaps he missed some response in her, for he fell silent. When they reached the Valley of the Rocks he stood still and looked about him. "I had no idea there was anything as beautiful as this in England," he said.