He looked at her to see if she was being sarcastic. Then, amused, he started an inventory.

“Charming. Two ditches. Two nice grass banks, one with a very handsome crop of cow-parsley, and one with a good gash made by my car. Two badly kept hedges. A long road in need of repair, and full of dust kicked up by army traffic. One . . .”

Janet stopped him. She was laughing, but rather awkwardly. Now he was describing the scene her description ‘lovely spot’ did seem idiotic, but all the same he could not spoil its charm for her. Did all places look different, she wondered, because of the person you saw them with? Probably yes. She had seen girls meeting men under the clock at Charing Cross or in Piccadilly Tube Station, and had caught an expression on their faces which had remained with her, but until now unidentified. Now she knew what it was. Charing Cross was not the Charing Cross the hurrying crowd saw. Piccadilly Tube was not a swarming mass pushing their way on to the escalators. Each was a rarefied and lovely world born for lovers’ meetings. She could not tell Donald what she had learnt. Instead she said:

“You are looking at the ground. I was looking at the sky. Listen to that lark. Anyway, to a Cockney all the country is lovely. I think that cow-parsley that you speak of so rudely is gorgeous. So would you if the only flowers you were used to having cost good money and then weren’t fresh.”

He nodded.

“Mind you, I’m fond of every inch of this part. I loved it as a kid, and since I’ve had the farm, I’ve the feeling of belonging. There’s a very strong hold between a farmer and the land, you know. I’ve had fights with it, and sometimes it’s beaten me, and sometimes I’ve beaten it. As far as that battle goes we’ve broken about square.” He was silent a moment, and then went on. “On other counts I’ve got a bit owing, though. You can’t help mixing backgrounds with the things which happen on them. When the time comes for me to be boxed and pulled in one of my carts to the churchyard, I should like people to say that the land had treated me well. I’d like them to say, ‘He was happy here.’”

He was miles away in his thoughts, almost unconscious of her. Janet did not interrupt him. She could see Anna so clearly; that frail little creature must haunt the countryside for him. Donald was no fool; he would have known how far she was from happiness. Wrapped in their private musings they were startled by the sound of a horn. The cyclist had stopped another farmer who was red-faced with delight at the thought of towing Donald and his governess. A proper old tale he would have to tell.