tter of dark down. She saw his eyes, hard
and keen, dark blue, like the blade of a new knife.

"No. I wish it was my farm. Why?"

She could see now it wasn't. He was out tramping. The corner of a
knapsack bulged over his right shoulder. Rough greenish coat and
stockings--dust-coloured riding breeches--

But there was something about him. Something tall and distant; slender
and strange, like the fir-trees.

"Because whoever's farm it is I want to see him."

"You won't see him. There isn't anybody there."

"Oh."

He lingered.

"Do you know who he is?" she said.

"No. I don't know anything. I don't even know where I am. But I hope it's
Bourton-on-the-Hill."

"I'm afraid it isn't. It's Stow-on-the-Wold."

He laughed and shifted his knapsack to his left shoulder, and held up his
chin. His eyes slewed round, raking the horizon.

"It's all right," she said. "You can get to Bourton-on-the-Hill. I'll
show you." She pointed. "You see where that clump of trees is--like a
battleship, sailing over a green hill. That's about where it is."

"Thanks. I've been trying to get there all afternoon."

"Where have you come from?"

"Stanway. The other side of that ridge."

"You should have kept along the top. You've come miles out of your way."

"I like going out of my way. I did it for fun. For the adventure."

You could see he was innocent and happy, like a child. She turned and
went with him up the field.

She wouldn't go to Bourton-on-the-Hill. She would go back to the hotel
and see whether there was a wire for her from Gwinnie.... He liked going
out of his way.

"I suppose," he said, "there's _something_ the other side of that gate."

"I hate to tell you. There's a road there. It's your way. The end of the
adventure."

He laughed again, showing small white teeth this time. The gate fell to
with a thud and a click.

"What do I do now?"

"You go north. Straight ahead. Turn down the fifth or sixth lane on your
right--you'll see the sign-post. Then the first lane on your left.
That'll bring you out at the top of the hill."

"Thanks. Thanks most awfully." He raised his hat, backing from her,
holding her in his eyes till he turned.

He would be out of sight now at the pace he was going; his young,
slender, skimming stride.

She stood on the top of the rise and looked round. He was halting down
there at the bend by the grey cone of the lime kiln under the ash-tree.
He had turned and had his face towards her.