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her loins or her breasts.
She went to the wood next day. It was a grey, still after-
noon, with the dark-green dogs-mercury spreading under
the hazel copse, and all the trees making a silent effort to
open their buds. Today she could almost feel it in her own
body, the huge heave of the sap in the massive trees, up-
wards, up, up to the bud-a, there to push into little flamey
oak-leaves, bronze as blood. It was like a ride running tur-
gid upward, and spreading on the sky.
She came to the clearing, but he was not there. She had
only half expected him. The pheasant chicks were running
lightly abroad, light as insects, from the coops where the fel-
low hens clucked anxiously. Connie sat and watched them,
and waited. She only waited. Even the chicks she hardly saw.
She waited.
The time passed with dream-like slowness, and he did
not come. She had only half expected him. He never came
in the afternoon. She must go home to tea. But she had to
force herself to leave.
As she went home, a fine drizzle of rain fell.
’Is it raining again?’ said Clifford, seeing her shake her
hat.
’Just drizzle.’
She poured tea in silence, absorbed in a sort of obstinacy.
She did want to see the keeper today, to see if it were really
real. If it were really real.
’Shall I read a little to you afterwards?’ said Clifford.
She looked at him. Had he sensed something?
’The spring makes me feel queer—I thought I might rest

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