, and laid it back on the dust rug,
nor did he answer, or show other sign of having heard.

And Lady Casterley, deeply wounded, pressed her faded lips together, and
said sharply:

"Slower, please, Frith!"

CHAPTER V

It was to Barbara that Miltoun unfolded, if but little, the trouble of
his spirit, lying that same afternoon under a ragged tamarisk hedge with
the tide far out. He could never have done this if there had not been
between them the accidental revelation of that night at Monkland; nor
even then perhaps had he not felt in this young sister of his the warmth
of life for which he was yearning. In such a matter as love Barbara was
the elder of these two. For, besides the motherly knowledge of the heart
peculiar to most women, she had the inherent woman-of-the-worldliness to
be expected of a daughter of Lord and Lady Valleys. If she herself were
in doubt as to the state of her affections, it was not as with Miltoun,
on the score of the senses and the heart, but on the score of her spirit
and curiosity, which Courtier had awakened and caused to flap their wings
a little. She worried over Miltoun's forlorn case; it hurt her too to
think of Mrs. Noel eating her heart out in that lonely cottage. A sister
so--good and earnest as Agatha had ever inclined Barbara to a rebellious
view of morals, and disinclined her altogether to religion. And so, she
felt that if those two could not be happy apart, they should be happy
together, in the name of all the joy there was in life!

And while her brother lay face to the sky under the tamarisks, she kept
trying to think of how to console him, conscious that she did not in the
least understand the way he thought about things. Over the fields
behind, the larks were hymning the promise of the unripe corn; the
foreshore was painted all colours, from vivid green to mushroom pink; by
the edge of the blue sea little black figures stooped, gathering
sapphire. The air smelled sweet in the shade of the tamarisk; there was
ineffable peace. And Barbara, covered by the network of sunlight, could
not help impatience with a suffering which seemed to her so corrigible by
action. At last she ventured:

"Life is short, Eusty!"

Miltoun's answer, given without movement, startled her:

"Persuade me that it is, Babs, and I'll bless you. If the singing of
these larks means nothing, if that blue up there is a morass of our
invention, if we are pettily, creeping on furthering no