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In the lanes the high hedges shone black with rain. The silvery grey sky, faintly dappled, spread wide over the low, green land. The elder man glanced fiercely up the road, then turned his red face to his nephew.

‘And how’re you going on, lad?’ he said loudly. Berry noticed that his uncle was slightly uneasy of him. It made him also uncomfortable. The elder man had evidently something pressing on his soul.

‘Who are you living with in town?’ asked the nephew. ‘Have you gone back to Aunt Maud?’

‘No,’ barked the uncle. ‘She wouldn’t have me. I offered to–I want to–but she wouldn’t.’

‘You’re alone, then?’

‘No, I’m not alone.’

He turned and glared with his fierce blue eyes at his nephew, but said no more for some time. The car ran on through the mud, under the wet wall of the park.

‘That other devil tried to poison me,’ suddenly shouted the elder man. ‘The one I went to Australia with.’ At which, in spite of himself, the younger smiled in secret.

‘How was that?’ he asked.

‘Wanted to get rid of me. She got in with another fellow on the ship…. By Jove, I was bad.’

‘Where?–on the ship?’

‘No,’ bellowed the other. ‘No. That was in Wellington, New Zealand. I was bad, and got lower an’ lower–couldn’t think what was up. I could hardly crawl about. As certain as I’m here, she was poisoning me, to get to th’ other chap–I’m certain of it.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘I cleared out–went to Sydney–‘

‘And left her?’

‘Yes, I thought begod, I’d better clear out if I wanted to live.’

‘And you were all right in Sydney?’

‘Better in no time–I know she was putting poison in my coffee.’

‘Hm!’

There was a glum silence. The driver stared at the road ahead, fixedly, managing the car as if it were a live thing. The nephew felt that his uncle was afraid, quite stupefied with fear, fear of life, of death, of himself.

‘You’re in rooms, then?’ asked the nephew.

‘No, I’m in a house of my own,’ said the uncle defiantly, ‘wi’ th’ best little woman in th’ Midlands. She’s a marvel.–Why don’t you come an’ see us?’

‘I will. Who is she?’

‘Oh, she’s a good girl–a beautiful little thing. I was clean gone on her first time I saw her. An’ she was on me. Her mother lives with us–respectable girl, none o’ your….’

‘And how old is she?’

‘–how old is she?–she’s twenty-one.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘She’s right enough.’

‘You’d marry her–getting a divorce–?’

‘I shall marry her.’

There was a little antagonism between the two men.

‘Where’s Aunt Maud?’ asked the younger.

‘She’s at the Railway Arms–we passed it, just against Rollin’s Mill Crossing…. They sent me a note this morning to go an’ see her when I can spare time. She’s got consumption.’

‘Good Lord! Are you going?’

‘Yes–‘

But again Berry felt that his uncle was afraid.

The young man got through his commission in the village, had a drink with his uncle at the inn, and the two were returning home. The elder man’s subject of conversation was Australia. As they drew near the town they grew silent, thinking both of the public-house. At last they saw the gates of the railway crossing were closed before them.

‘Shan’t you call?’ asked Berry, jerking his head in the direction of the inn, which stood at the corner between two roads, its sign hanging under a bare horse-chestnut tree in front.

‘I might as well. Come in an’ have a drink,’ said the uncle.

It had been raining all the morning, so shallow pools of water lay about. A brewer’s wagon, with wet barrels and warm-smelling horses, stood near the door of the inn. Everywhere seemed silent, but for the rattle of trains at the crossing. The two men went uneasily up the steps and into the bar. The place was paddled with wet feet, empty. As the bar-man was heard approaching, the uncle asked, his usual bluster slightly hushed by fear:

‘What yer goin’ ta have, lad? Same as last time?’