Janet strolled home. The sun was setting in a glory of pink and gold. It was a breath-catchingly beautiful evening, and she was in the mood to see loveliness so acutely that it hurt. The buzzing, home-going bee, the delicate grasses, the trees against the sky, all caught at the strings of her heart. She tried to think coherently of the afternoon. Was today the first moment she had fallen in love? Did love just show itself in the rather primitive wish for contact? Was that why her hand had tried to touch him? She remembered the feel of his arms and his mouth. She might have said that there was to be no more kissing, but the very memory made her sway, and everything dance before her eyes. How silly she was! Of course today was not the beginning. The beginning must have been the time they first met; that was why she cared so terribly about his moods and what he said. What of him? Did he care at all? Janet was a realist and her common sense cried ‘no’. He said he wanted to kiss you, but he said we mustn’t make a mountain out of it. That meant don’t think of a summer’s day flirtation as love. But he had said life was complicated. What did he mean by that? And he had minded her talking to that soldier, with what followed; that little scene looked like jealousy. She had reached the last stile and the cottage was in sight. She sat down for a second. She spoke in a whisper, and then louder, and then in her full voice, for there were only some birds and two rabbits to hear. “I love Donald. I love Donald.” She raised her eyes to the setting sun. “Please God, do let him love me.” A night breeze coming suddenly across the fields made her shiver. What had she prayed? What about Gladys? She turned. The farm lay in the shadow of the gathering night, and as she looked towards it, a coldness gripped her. Oh, heavens! What a muddle life was! She jumped off the stile and, to escape from her thoughts, ran the rest of the way home.

Section 10

Being in love is the hardest thing to hide. Janet looked different when she came home that night. Her eyes shone, her lips glowed, there was more colour in her cheeks, and a vividness about the whole of her, so that as she opened the front door it was as if a lamp came into the house.

Maggie was lying on the sofa in the sitting-room; she had a book in her hand. She was trying to read, but she had not taken a word in.