They had emerged at the head of a shallow valley--one of those wide
hollows in the North Downs that are like a great length of tapestry held
loosely by four people. It was raining. Byrne looked at the dark blue
dots rapidly appearing on the sleeves of Helena's dress. They walked on
a little way. The rain increased. Helena looked about for shelter.
'Here,' said Byrne--'here is our tent--a black tartar's--ready pitched.' He stooped under the low boughs of a very large yew tree that stood just
back from the path. She crept after him. It was really a very good
shelter. Byrne sat on the ledge of a root, Helena beside him. He looked
under the flap of the black branches down the valley. The grey rain was
falling steadily; the dark hollow under the tree was immersed in the
monotonous sound of it. In the open, where the bright young corn shone
intense with wet green, was a fold of sheep. Exposed in a large pen on
the hillside, they were moving restlessly; now and again came the
'tong-ting-tong' of a sheep-bell. First the grey creatures huddled in
the high corner, then one of them descended and took shelter by the
growing corn lowest down. The rest followed, bleating and pushing each
other in their anxiety to reach the place of desire, which was no whit
better than where they stood before.
'That's like us all,' said Byrne whimsically. 'We're all penned out on a
wet evening, but we think, if only we could get where someone else is,
it would be deliciously cosy.' Helena laughed swiftly, as she always did when he became whimsical and
fretful. He sat with his head bent down, smiling with his lips, but his
eyes melancholy. She put her hand out to him. He took it without
apparently observing it, folding his own hand over it, and unconsciously
increasing the pressure.
'You are cold,' he said.
'Only my hands, and they usually are,' she replied gently.
'And mine are generally warm.' 'I know that,' she said. 'It's almost the only warmth I get now--your
hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.' 'As good as a baked potato,' he said.
She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery.
'So many calories per week--isn't that how we manage it?' he asked. 'On
credit?' She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forgo his irony,
which hurt her. They sat silent for some time. The sheep broke their
cluster, and began to straggle back to the upper side of the pen.