"And I you!..." she replied, slipping her fingers through the yielding
straws for his to find and press, while he drew her as near him as she
could come for the sheaf between.

She had, indeed, never been so sure she loved him, not even the night
before when passion had called to her. He looked so splendid with his
brown throat laid bare by his open shirt; his dark hair, wet with sweat,
pushed off his brow; his dark eyes at once younger and more the eyes of
a man than they had ever showed. Blanche felt an odd and delicious
thrill as she met his dominant glance; she exulted in the swing of his
lithe body, in the ease with which he tossed the heavy sheaves, even in
the sweat that stood out over his face and chest, and which made him the
more male, the more primitive. She herself had never seemed so
fascinating and so sure; Vassie was swept away by her for the first
time; Phoebe lost a certain sense of grudge in awed admiration; Judy,
in speech and action, contrived to lead up to her friend,
whole-heartedly exploiting the wonder of her. John-James and Killigrew
were probably the only two there who did not acknowledge the sway.

Killigrew declined to labour with the rest; he set up his easel and did
several little sketches, nearly all of Judy, whose dark head showed
against the grey-gold background of the field with a greater
distinction than the pale chignons of Blanche and Vassie or the
indeterminate locks of Phoebe.

"You don't repent?" asked Ishmael, sure of his answer, as he and Blanche
each poised a sheaf against the other's.

"No, no, and no," she told him, bending round the stack to see his face,