Kentish fields, encircled by oak trees and by chestnuts. Owned by rich
landlords, each generation had done its best, and the fruitful land was
tended like a garden. But it had no abandonment, no freedom; the hand of
man was obvious, perpetually, in the trimness and in the careful
arrangement, so that the landscape, in its formality, reminded one of
those set pieces chosen by the classic painters. But the fields were
fresh with the tall young grass of the new year, the buttercups flaunted
themselves gaily, careless of the pitiless night, rejoicing in the
sunshine, as before they had rejoiced in the enlivening rain. The
pleasant rain-drops still lingered on the daisies. The feathery ball of
the dandelion, carried by the breeze, floated past like a symbol of the
life of man--a random thing, resistless to the merest breath, with no
mission but to spread its seed upon the fertile earth, so that things
like unto it should spring up in the succeeding summer, and flower
uncared for, and reproduce themselves, and die.

James decided finally that he must break that very evening his
engagement with Mary. He could not put it off. Every day made his
difficulty greater, and it was impossible any longer to avoid the
discussion of their marriage, nor could he continue to treat Mary with
nothing better than friendliness. He realised all her good qualities;
she was frank, and honest, and simple; anxious to do right; charitable
according to her light; kindness itself. James felt sincerely grateful
for the affectionate tenderness which Mary showed to his father and
mother. He was thankful for that and for much else, and was prepared to
look upon her as a very good friend, even as a sister; but he did not
love her. He could not look upon the prospect of marriage without
repulsion. Nor did Mary, he said, really love him. He knew what love
was--something different entirely from that pallid flame of affection
and esteem, of which alone she was capable. Mary loved him for certain
qualities of mind, because his station in life was decent, his manners
passable, his morals beyond reproach.

"She might as well marry the Ten Commandments!" he cried impatiently.

Mary cared for him from habit, from a sense of decorum, and for the
fitness of things; but that was not love. He shrugged his shoulders
scornfully, looking for some word to express the mildly pleasant,
unagitating emotion. James, who had been devoured by it, who had
struggled with it as w