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“I don’t wish, no!” She was vehement.

“Art sure?” he insisted, almost indignantly.

“Sure–I quite sure.” She laughed.

Geoffrey turned away at the last words. Then the rain beat heavily. The lonely brother slouched miserably to the hut, where the rain played a mad tattoo. He felt very miserable, and jealous of Maurice.

His bicycle lamp, downcast, shone a yellow light on the stark floor of the shed or hut with one wall open. It lit up the trodden earth, the shafts of tools lying piled under the beam, beside the dreary grey metal of the building. He took off the lamp, shone it round the hut. There were piles of harness, tools, a big sugar box, a deep bed of hay–then the beams across the corrugated iron, all very dreary and stark. He shone the lamp into the night: nothing but the furtive glitter of raindrops through the mist of darkness, and black shapes hovering round.

Geoffrey blew out the light and flung himself on to the hay. He would put the ladder up for them in a while, when they would be wanting it. Meanwhile he sat and gloated over Maurice’s felicity. He was imaginative, and now he had something concrete to work upon. Nothing in the whole of life stirred him so profoundly, and so utterly, as the thought of this woman. For Paula was strange, foreign, different from the ordinary girls: the rousing, feminine quality seemed in her concentrated, brighter, more fascinating than in anyone he had known, so that he felt most like a moth near a candle. He would have loved her wildly–but Maurice had got her. His thoughts beat the same course, round and round. What was it like when you kissed her, when she held you tight round the waist, how did she feel towards Maurice, did she love to touch him, was he fine and attractive to her; what did she think of himself–she merely disregarded him, as she would disregard a horse in a field; why should she do so, why couldn’t he make her regard himself, instead of Maurice: he would never command a woman’s regard like that, he always gave in to her too soon; if only some woman would come and take him for what he was worth, though he was such a stumbler and showed to such disadvantage, ah, what a grand thing it would be; how he would kiss her. Then round he went again in the same course, brooding almost like a madman. Meanwhile the rain drummed deep on the shed, then grew lighter and softer. There came the drip, drip of the drops falling outside.

Geoffrey’s heart leaped up his chest, and he clenched himself, as a black shape crept round the post of the shed and, bowing, entered silently. The young man’s heart beat so heavily in plunges, he could not get his breath to speak. It was shock, rather than fear. The form felt towards him. He sprang up, gripped it with his great hands, panting “Now, then!”

There was no resistance, only a little whimper of despair.

“Let me go,” said a woman’s voice.

“What are you after?” he asked, in deep, gruff tones.

“I thought ‘e was ‘ere,” she wept despairingly, with little, stubborn sobs.

“An’ you’ve found what you didn’t expect, have you?”

At the sound of his bullying she tried to get away from him.

“Let me go,” she said.

“Who did you expect to find here?” he asked, but more his natural self.

“I expected my husband–him as you saw at dinner. Let me go.”

“Why, is it you?” exclaimed Geoffrey.”Has he left you?”

“Let me go,” said the woman sullenly, trying to draw away. He realized that her sleeve was very wet, her arm slender under his grasp. Suddenly he grew ashamed of himself: he had no doubt hurt her, gripping her so hard. He relaxed, but did not let her go.

“An’ are you searching round after that snipe as was here at dinner?” he asked. She did not answer.

“Where did he leave you?”

“I left him–here. I’ve seen nothing of him since.”

“I s’d think it’s good riddance,” he said. She did not answer. He gave a short laugh, saying:

“I should ha’ thought you wouldn’t ha’ wanted to clap eyes on him again.”