house; beyond them, the fields were tipped up at all
angles; they sprawled over a hill as if each were anxious to see what
was going on in the meadow beneath it. Followed by Jill and Sally, her
lame duck, Mavis went to the first of the hill-fields, where geese,
scarcely out of their adolescence, clamoured about her hands with their
soothing, self-contented piping. Even the fierce old gander, which was
the terror of stray children and timid maid-servants, deigned to notice
her with a tolerant eye. Mavis sighed and went indoors.

Just before tea, she was standing at a window sorrowfully watching the
sun's early retirement. The angle of the house prevented her from
seeing her favourite cows, but she could hear the tearing sound their
teeth made as they seized the grass.

She had seen nothing of her friends (even including Windebank) for the
last few days. They had realised that she was not to be stopped from
going on what they considered to be her mad enterprise, and had given
her up as a bad job. No one seemed to care what became of her; it was
as if she were deserted by the world. A sullen anger raged within her;
she would not acknowledge to herself that much of it was due to
Windebank's latent defection. She longed to get away and have done with
it; the suspense of waiting till the morrow was becoming intolerable.
As the servants were bringing in tea, Mavis could no longer bear the
confinement of the house; she hurried past the two men to go out of the
front door.

She walked at random, going anywhere so long as she obeyed the passion
for movement which possessed her. Some way from the house, she chanced
upon Windebank, who was standing under a tree.

"Why are you here?" she asked, as she stood before him.

"I was making up my mind."

"What about?"

"If I should see you again."

"You needn't. Do you hear? You needn't," she said passionately. He
looked at her surprised. She went on:

"Everyone's forgotten me and doesn't care one bit what becomes of me.
You're the worst of all."

"I?"

"You. They're honest and stay away. You, in your heart, don't wish to
trouble to say good-bye, but you haven't the pluck to act up to your
wishes. I hate you!"

"But, Mavis--"

"Don't call me that. You haven't the courage of your convictions. I
hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish I'd never seen you. Be honest
and go away and leave me."

"No!" cried Windebank, as he seized her arm.

"That's right! Strike me!" cried