“What is there to stop here for? The valley is all running wild and unprofitable. You’ve no freedom for thinking of what the other folks think of you, and everything round you keeps the same, and so you can’t change yourself—because everything you look at brings up the same old feeling, and stops you from feeling fresh things. And what is there that’s worth anything?—What’s worth having in my life?” “I thought,” said I, “your comfort was worth having.” He sat still and did not answer. “What’s shaken you out of your nest?” I asked. “I don’t know. I’ve not felt the same since that row with Annable. And Lettie said to me: ‘Here, you can’t live as you like—in any way or circumstance. You’re like a bit out of those coloured marble mosaics in the hall, you have to fit in your own set, fit into your own pattern, because you’re put there from the first. But you don’t want to be like a fixed bit of a mosaic—you want to fuse into life, and melt and mix with the rest of folk, to have some things burned out of you——’ She was downright serious.” “Well, you need not believe her. When did you see her?” “She came down on Wednesday, when I was getting the apples in the morning. She climbed a tree with me, and there was a wind, that was why I was getting all the apples, and it rocked us, me right up at the top, she sitting half way down holding the basket. I asked her didn’t she think that free kind of life was the best, and that was how she answered me.” “You should have contradicted her.” “It seemed true. I never thought of it being wrong, in fact.” “Come—that sounds bad.” “No—I thought she looked down on us—on our way of life. I thought she meant I was like a toad in a hole.” “You should have shown her different.” “How could I when I could see no different?” “It strikes me you’re in love.” He laughed at the idea, saying, “No, but it is rotten to find that there isn’t a single thing you have to be proud of.” “This is a new tune for you.” He pulled the grass moodily. “And when do you think of going?” “Oh—I don’t know—I’ve said nothing to mother. Not yet,—at any rate not till spring.” “Not till something has happened,” said I. “What?” he asked. “Something decisive.” “I don’t know what can happen—unless the Squire turns us out.” “No?” I said. He did not speak. “You should make things happen,” said I. “Don’t make me feel a worse fool, Cyril,” he replied despairingly. Gyp whined and jumped, tugging her chain to follow us. The grey blurs among the blackness of the bushes were resting sheep. A chill, dim mist crept along the ground. “But, for all that, Cyril,” he said, “to have her laugh at you across the table; to hear her sing as she moved about, before you are washed at night, when the fire’s warm, and you’re tired; to have her sit by you on the hearth seat, close and soft. . . .” “In Spain,” I said. “In Spain.” He took no notice, but turned suddenly, laughing.