'They got that hay rather damp,' he said. 'Can't you smell it--like hot
tobacco and sandal-wood?'

'What, is that the stack?' she asked.

'Yes, it's always like that when it's picked damp.'

The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned
on to a narrow path by the side of the field he went ahead. Leaning over
the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as butter, full
of scent; then he waited for her. She was hanging her head, looking in
the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers without speaking.
She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and looked up at him over
the blossoms with her beautiful, beseeching blue eyes. He smiled
gently to her.

'Isn't it nice?' he said. 'Aren't they fine bits?'

She took them without answering, and put one piece carefully in her
dress. It was quite against her rule to wear a flower. He took his place
by her side.

'I always like the gold-green of cut fields,' he said. 'They seem to
give off sunshine even when the sky's greyer than a tabby cat.'

She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing
field on her right.

They entered the larch-wood. There the chill wind was changed into