an ever in her life, she wanted to feel that he was wholly
hers; and now, if she were to confess the truth, he seemed less hers
than he had ever been before. At times, indeed, when their intimacy
should have been at its best, she felt that she had lost him
altogether, and that his mind was hundreds of miles away from her, as
indeed it was. She consoled herself by supposing that his life was now
so crowded with new interests and dreams of future adventure that he
could be forgiven if their wonder enthralled and overwhelmed him. It
was indeed a wonderful thing if this son of hers, at the age of
seventeen, should see life with the eyes of a child new-born into the
world. She envied him this ecstasy, even though its real explanation
was far simpler than that which she imagined. When he walked in
silence with her through the fields, or sat dreaming under the cedar on
the lawn when evening came, it is possible that Arthur had sight of the
new heaven and new earth that she imagined, for his eyes were lover's
eyes. But this she never guessed.

XVI

In the last week of the holidays, if only Mrs. Payne had been more
acute, she might have surprised his secret. Walking the lowest of
their meadows on the side of Bredon Hill, they came suddenly upon a
southern slope already powdered with the flowers of cowslips. This
cloth of gold was the chief glory of their spring, blooming mile on
mile of meadowland, and drenching the air with a faint perfume. Mrs.
Payne stooped to pick some, for the scent provoked so many memories,
and to her it was one of the sensations that returned year by year with
amazing freshness--that and the spice of pinks in early summer or the
green odour of phlox. "Smell them, they smell like wine," she said,
giving her bunch to Arthur.

"Mrs. Considine told me that there are no cowslips in their part of
Devon," he said. And then, after a moment of hesitation, he went down
on his knees and began to pick the flowers. The hue of their smooth
stalks was pale as the first apple-leaves, springing straight and
slender each above its leafy mat.

"Why are you picking so many? They're more beautiful as they are."

"If they haven't any I'd like to send her some?"

He went on picking cowslips till the light faded from the fields. Next
morning he packed them carefully, and posted them, with a letter, to
Lapton. She thought it very charming and thoughtful of him to send
Mrs. Considine the flowers. It