He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me. As one who is listening for a far-off noise, he sat with his eyes fixed. Then he bent his head, and leaned it against the side of the cow, as if he would begin to milk. But he did not. The cow looked round and stirred uneasily. He began to draw the milk, and then to milk mechanically. I watched the movement of his hands, listening to the rhythmic clang of the jets of milk on the bucket, as a relief. After a while the movement of his hands became slower, thoughtful—then stopped. “She has really said yes?” I nodded. “And what does your mother say?” “She is pleased.” He began to milk again. The cow stirred uneasily, shifting her legs. He looked at her angrily, and went on milking. Then, quite upset, she shifted again, and swung her tail in his face. “Stand still!” he shouted, striking her on the haunch. She seemed to cower like a beaten woman. He swore at her, and continued to milk. She did not yield much that night; she was very restive; he took the stool from beneath him and gave her a good blow; I heard the stool knock on her prominent hip bone. After that she stood still, but her milk soon ceased to flow. When he stood up, he paused before he went to the next beast, and I thought he was going to talk. But just then the father came along with his bucket. He looked in the shed, and, laughing in his mature, pleasant way, said: “So you’re an onlooker to-day, Cyril—I thought you’d have milked a cow or two for me by now.” “Nay,” said I, “Sunday is a day of rest—and milking makes your hands ache.” “You only want a bit more practice,” he said, joking in his ripe fashion. “Why George, is that all you’ve got from Julia?” “It is.” “H’m—she’s soon going dry. Julia, old lady, don’t go and turn skinny.” When he had gone, and the shed was still, the air seemed colder. I heard his good-humoured “Stand over, old lass,” from the other shed, and the drum-beats of the first jets of milk on the pail. “He has a comfortable time,” said George, looking savage. I laughed. He still waited. “You really expected Lettie to have _him,_” I said. “I suppose so,” he replied, “then she’d made up her mind to it. It didn’t matter—what she wanted—at the bottom.” “You?” said I. “If it hadn’t been that he was a prize—with a ticket—she’d have had——” “You!” said I. “She was afraid—look how she turned and kept away——” “From you?” said I. “I should like to squeeze her till she screamed.” “You should have gripped her before, and kept her,” said I. “She—she’s like a woman, like a cat—running to comforts—she strikes a bargain. Women are all tradesmen.” “Don’t generalise, it’s no good.” “She’s like a prostitute——” “It’s banal! I believe she loves him.” He started, and looked at me queerly. He looked quite childish in his doubt and perplexity. “She, what——?” “Loves him—honestly.”