"Yes," answered Thresk, taking his eyes slowly from her face. It was a morning rich with sunlight, noisy with blackbirds, and she seemed to him a necessary part of it. She was alive with it and gave rather than took of its gold. For not even that finely chiselled nose of hers could impart to her anything of the look of a statue. "Yes. They went straight, didn't they, those old centurions?" he said. He moved his horse and stood in the middle of the track looking across a valley of forest and meadow to Halnaker Down, six miles away in the southwest. Straight in the line of his eyes over a shoulder of the down rose a tall fine spire--the spire of Chichester Cathedral, and farther on he could see the water in Bosham Creek like a silver mirror, and the Channel rippling silver beyond. He turned round. Beneath him lay the blue dark weald of Sussex, and through it he imagined the hidden line of the road driving straight as a ruler to London. "No going about!" he said. "If a hill was in the way the road climbed over it; if a marsh it was built through it." They rode on slowly along the great whaleback of grass, winding in and out amongst brambles and patches of yellow-flaming gorse. The day was still even at this height; and when, far away, a field of long grass under a stray wind bent from edge to edge with the swift motion of running water, it took them both by surprise. And they met no one. They seemed to ride in the morning of a new clean world. They rose higher on to Duncton Down, and then the girl spoke. "So this is your last day here." He gazed about him out towards the sea, eastwards down the slope to the dark trees of Arundel, backwards over the weald to the high ridge of Blackdown. "I shall look back upon it." "Yes," she said. "It's a day to look back upon." She ran over in her mind the days of this last month since he had come to the inn at Great Beeding and friends of her family had written to her parents of his coming. "It's the most perfect of all your days here. I am glad. I want you to carry back with you good memories of our Sussex." "I shall do that," said he, "but for another reason." Stella pushed on a foot or two ahead of him. "Well," she said, "no doubt the Temple will be stuffy." "Nor was I thinking of the Temple." "No?" "No." She rode on a little way whilst he followed. A great bee buzzed past their heads and settled in the cup of a wild rose. In a copse beside them a thrush shot into the air a quiverful of clear melody. Stella spoke again, not looking at her companion, and in a low voice and bravely with a sweet confusion of her blood. "I am very glad to hear you say that, for I was afraid that I had let you see more than I should have cared for you to see--unless you had been anxious to see it too."