'I think, dear,' she said, 'we ought to find the little path that
escaped us last night.' 'We were lucky to miss it,' he answered. 'You don't get a walk like that
twice in a lifetime, in spite of the old ladies.' She glanced up at him with a winsome smile, glad to hear his words.
They set off, Siegmund bare-headed. He was dressed in flannels and a
loose canvas shirt, but he looked what he was--a Londoner on holiday. He
had the appearance, the diffident bearing, and the well-cut clothes of a
gentleman. He had a slight stoop, a strong-shouldered stoop, and as he
walked he looked unseeing in front of him.
Helena belonged to the unclassed. She was not ladylike, nor smart, nor
assertive. One could not tell whether she were of independent means or a
worker. One thing was obvious about her: she was evidently educated.
Rather short, of strong figure, she was much more noticeably a
_concentrée_ than was Siegmund. Unless definitely looking at something
she always seemed coiled within herself.
She wore a white voile dress made with the waist just below her breasts,
and the skirt dropping straight and clinging. On her head was a large,
simple hat of burnt straw.
Through the open-worked sleeves of her dress she could feel the sun bite
vigorously.
'I wish you had put on a hat, Siegmund,' she said.
'Why?' he laughed. 'My hair is like a hood,' He ruffled it back with his
hand. The sunlight glistened on his forehead.
On the higher paths a fresh breeze was energetically chasing the
butterflies and driving the few small clouds disconsolate out of the
sky. The lovers stood for some time watching the people of the farm in
the down below dip their sheep on this sunny morning. There was a ragged
noise of bleating from the flock penned in a corner of the yard. Two
red-armed men seized a sheep, hauled it to a large bath that stood in
the middle of the yard, and there held it, more or less in the bath,
whilst a third man baled a dirty yellow liquid over its body. The white
legs of the sheep twinkled as it butted this way and that to escape the
yellow douche, the blue-shirted men ducked and struggled. There was a
faint splashing and shouting to be heard even from a distance. The
farmer's wife and children stood by ready to rush in with assistance if
necessary.
Helena laughed with pleasure.
'That is really a very quaint and primitive proceeding,' she said. 'It
is cruder than Theocritus.' 'In an instant it makes me wish I were a farmer,' he laughed. 'I think
every man has a passion for farming at the bottom of his blood. It would
be fine to be plain-minded, to see no farther than the end of one's
nose, and to own cattle and land.' 'Would it?' asked Helena sceptically.