They came up at last on to the brow of the hill and found themselves at the extremity of a long ridge that stretched ahead of them, going down sheer at each side into a valley. From where they stood the ground dipped away again slightly, then rose in a series of undulations to a point of rock whereon a pale-coloured village balanced itself improbably. A mule-track, which must have made a more gradual ascent up the side of the hill, looped itself over the ridge a little ahead of them and vanished again. Beyond the village more hills, a disheartening infinity, rose blade-like, without shadow, against the vapourless and metallic brilliance of the sky. From the grass, among the twisted shadows of olives, flame-bright anemones spurted: Mr Lee-Mittison precipitated himself upon them with a cry of pleasure and triumph. A scent of thyme stung the nostrils, reinforcing the glare with its pungency till two of the senses reeled.

The picnic-party had not halted, doggedness had forbidden them even to pause, since they had left the parapet now immeasurably far below. Veronica Lawrence wildly exclaiming ‘The Promised Land!’ stumbled forward into the thyme and lay crucified. Eileen, incapable of more than a gesture, knelt down and stared in dismay at the hills which now promised no bounds to the activities of Mr Lee-Mittison. The Bransomes, half-obliterated by the strain of the ascent, flopped sideways and in self-conscious abandon stood hugging an olive tree.

Sydney found Mr Milton beside her; his face was glazed and dark, and in spite of his ceaseless mopping the sweat streamed down so that he could hardly open his eyes.

‘You don’t look hot at all,’ he said reproachfully; and Sydney, who was enduring the burning discomfort of those who cannot perspire, said snappily:

‘Well, we can’t all express ourselves.’

‘I wish,’ he said ruefully, pushing a handkerchief round the inside of his collar, ‘that my self-expression were not quite so fluent.’

She pushed back her hat and put her hand to her forehead; it felt hot as a pebble on an August beach. They had straggled a little nearer the village, so that the brow of the hill rose behind them, cutting away the horizon, and the sea, when they turned to look for it, was only visible in a triangle at the mouth of the valley below. She felt him waiting for her to speak and reluctantly asked, ‘Do you like the village?’ nodding ahead.

‘Yes,’ he said, after a pause which gave the unhappy impression that he had sealed the village with his approval. ‘It’s jolly. It’s out of some background looked at, you know, through an arch or the slit of a window. Look at the track leading up to it – there’s even a donkey.’