Like a picture set between two great masses of fruiting white-horn, Dennycoombe spread eastward into Dartmoor and climbed upward through glory of sinking light upon autumnal colour. To the west Sheep’s Tor’s larch-clad shoulder sloped in pale gold mottled with green, while northerly Down Tor broke the withered fern. Between them lay a valley of lemon light washed with blue hazes and stained by great darkness where the shadows fell. Many a little dingle opened on either hand of the glen; and here twinkled water, where a brook leapt downward; and here shone dwindling raiment of beech and oak. Coombeshead Farm, the home of the Stanburys, stood at the apex of this gorge and lay under Coombeshead Tor. Still higher against the sky rolled Eylesbarrow, its enormous and simple outline broken only by the fangs of an old ruin; while flying clouds, that shone in opposition to the sunset, crowned all with welter of mingled light and gloom. The modest farmhouse clung like a grey nest into the tawny harmonies of the hill, and above it rose blue smoke. "You’ll come to tea?" said Madge; but Bartley shook his head. "Two’s company, three’s none," he said. "But we’re all at home." "No, no; I’ve had my luck--mustn’t be greedy. One thing I will swear: David Bowden won’t make you laugh as often at your tea as I did at your dinner--will he now?" "We’ve all got our different qualities." "I tell you he’s a kill-joy," repeated Bartley; but Margaret shook her head. "Not to me--never to me," she said frankly. This fearless confession reduced the man to silence. Then, while he considered the position and felt that, if he desired Margaret, the time for serious love-making had come, there approached the sturdy shape of young Bowden himself. They were now more than half-way up the valley, and David had seen them long ago. He advanced to meet them, took no notice of Bartley, but shook Margaret’s hand and spoke while he did so. "It was ordained that I should drink a dish of tea along with your people this afternoon; but if you’ve forgot it, I can go again." "No fay! Of course ’twasn’t forgotten. Why ever should you think so, Mr. David?" "Because Bartley here--however, I’m sorry I spoke, since ’tis as ’tis." "Not often you say more than be needed in words," remarked Mr. Crocker. But he spoke mechanically. His observation was entirely bestowed upon Margaret’s attitude towards Bowden. That she liked him was sufficiently clear. Her face was the brighter for his coming and she began to talk to him of certain interests not familiar to Bartley. Then she remembered herself and turned to the younger man again. "But what’s this to you, Bartley? Nought, I’m sure." He had remarked that she addressed David by his Christian name, but with the affix of ceremony. "Anything that interests you interests me, Madge," he answered. "But I’ll leave you here and go back-along through the woods." "Better come on, now you’re so near, and have tea with us."