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But as they ran down into Sussex, across the floods that sheeted the Rother levels, and saw the first outposts of Alard-Monking and Horns Cross Farms with the ragged line of Moat Wood—his heart suddenly grew cold. In one of his sidelong glances at Stella he saw a tear hanging on the dark stamen of an eyelash . . . he looked again as soon as he dared, and saw another on her cheek. Was it the cold? . . .

"Stella, are you cold?" he asked, fearing her answer.

"No, thank you, Gervase."

He dared not ask "Why are you crying?" Also there was no need—he knew. The sweetness had gone out of his sorrow, he no longer felt that luxurious creep of pain—instead his heart was heavy, and dragged at his breast. It was faint with anger.

When they came to the Throws where the road to Vinehall turns out of the road to Leasan, he asked her if she wouldn't come up to Conster for tea—"and I'll drive you home afterwards." But again she said in her gentle voice "No thank you, Gervase." He wished she wouldn't say it like that.