was coming up the field, walking slowly, his hands thrust in his
pockets, his eyes fixed steadily on a point in front of him that his mind
didn't see, drawn back in some intense contemplation. He strolled into
the ring so slowly that she had time to note the meditative gestures of
his shoulders and chin. He stood beside her, very straight and tall, not
speaking, still hiding his hands in his pockets, keeping up to the last
minute his pose of indestructible tranquillity. He was so close that she
could hear his breathing and feel his coat brushing her shoulder.

He seated himself, slowly, without a break in the silence of his
meditation.

She knew that something wonderful and beautiful was going to happen. It
had happened; it was happening now, growing more certain and more real
with every minute that she waited for John to say something. If nothing
changed, if this minute that she was living now prolonged itself, if it
went on for ever and ever, that would be happiness enough.

If she could keep still like this for ever--Any movement would be
dangerous. She was afraid almost to breathe.

Then she remembered. Of course, she would have to _tell_ him.

She could feel the jerk and throb in John's breathing, measuring off the
moments of his silence. Her thoughts came and went. "When he says he
cares for me I shall have to tell him"--"This is going on for ever. If he
cared for me he would have said it before now."--"It doesn't matter. He
can care or not as he likes. Nothing can stop my caring."

Then she was aware of her will, breaking through her peace, going out
towards him, fastening on his mind to make him care; to make him say he
cared, now, this minute. She was aware of her hands, clenched and
unclenched, pressing the sharp edge of the seat into their palms as she
dragged back her will.

She was quiet now.

John was looking at his own loose clasped hands and smiling. "Yes," he
said, "yes. Yes." It was as if he had said, "This will go on. Nothing
more than this can ever happen. But as long as we live it will go on."

She had a sense almost of relief.

"Charlotte--"

"John--"

"You asked me why I came here. You must have known why."

"I didn't. I don't."

"Can't you think?"

"No, John. I've left off thinking. _My_ thinking's never any use."

"If you _did_ think you'd know it was you."

"_Me_?"

"If it wasn't you just at first it was your face. There are faces that do
things to you, that hurt you when