She put her head back and looked at him sideways, laughing through the glitter of her hair. They came to the kennels. She sat down on the edge of the great stone water trough, and put her hands in the water, moving them gently like submerged flowers through the clear pool. “I love to see myself in the water,” she said, “I don’t mean _on_ the water, Narcissus—but that’s how I should like to be out west, to have a little lake of my own, and swim with my limbs quite free in the water.” “Do you swim well?” he asked. “Fairly.” “I would race you—in your little lake.” She laughed, took her hands out of the water, and watched the clear drops trickle off. Then she lifted her head suddenly, at some thought or other. She looked across the valley, and saw the red roofs of the Mill. “—Ilion, Ilion Fatalis incestusque judex Et mulier peregrina vertit. In pulverem——” “What’s that?” he said. “Nothing.” “That’s a private trough,” exclaimed a thin voice, high like a peewit’s cry. We started in surprise to see a tall, black-bearded man looking at us and away from us nervously, fidgeting uneasily some ten yards off. “Is it?” said Lettie, looking at her wet hands, which she proceeded to dry on a fragment of a handkerchief. “You mustn’t meddle with it,” said the man in the same reedy, oboe voice. Then he turned his head away, and his pale grey eyes roved the countryside——when he had courage, he turned his back to us, shading his eyes to continue his scrutiny. He walked hurriedly, a few steps, then craned his neck, peering into the valley, and hastened a dozen yards in another direction, again stretching and peering about. Then he went indoors. “He is pretending to look for somebody,” said Lettie, “but it’s only because he’s afraid we shall think he came out just to look at us”—and they laughed. Suddenly a woman appeared at the gate; she had pale eyes like the mouse-voiced man. “You’ll get Bright’s disease sitting on that there damp stone,” she said to Lettie, who at once rose apologetically. “I ought to know,” continued the mouse-voiced woman, “my own mother died of it.” “Indeed,” murmured Lettie, “I’m sorry.” “Yes,” continued the woman, “it behooves you to be careful. Do you come from Strelley Mill Farm?” she asked suddenly of George, surveying his shameful déshabille with bitter reproof. He admitted the imputation. “And you’re going to leave, aren’t you?” Which also he admitted. “Humph!—we s’ll ’appen get some neighbours. It’s a dog’s life for loneliness. I suppose you knew the last lot that was here.” Another brief admission. “A dirty lot—a dirty beagle she must have been. You should just ha’ seen these grates.” “Yes,” said Lettie, “I have seen them.” “Faugh—the state! But come in—come in, you’ll see a difference.”