r. Somehow it was her head, so
shapely and poignant, that revealed her his woman to him. As she
moved about clothed closely, full-skirted and wearing her little
silk apron, her dark hair smoothly parted, her head revealed
itself to him in all its subtle, intrinsic beauty, and he knew
she was his woman, he knew her essence, that it was his to
possess. And he seemed to live thus in contact with her, in
contact with the unknown, the unaccountable and
incalculable.

They did not take much notice of each other, consciously.

"I'm betimes," he said.

"Yes," she answered.

He turned to the dogs, or to the child if she was there. The
little Anna played about the farm, flitting constantly in to
call something to her mother, to fling her arms round her
mother's skirts, to be noticed, perhaps caressed, then,
forgetting, to slip out again.

Then Brangwen, talking to the child, or to the dog between
his knees, would be aware of his wife, as, in her tight, dark
bodice and her lace fichu, she was reaching up to the corner
cupboard. He realized with a sharp pang that she belonged to
him, and he to her. He realized that he lived by her. Did he own
her? Was she here for ever? Or might she go away? She was not
really his, it was not a real marriage, this marriage between
them. She might go away. He did not feel like a master, husband,
father of her children. She belonged elsewhere. Any moment, she
might be gone. And he was ever drawn to her, drawn after her,
with ever-raging, ever-unsatisfied desire. He must always turn
home, wherever his steps were taking him, always to her, and he
could never quite reach her, he could never quite be satisfied,
never be at peace, because she might go away.

At evening, he was glad. Then, when he had finished in the
yard, and come in and washed himself, when the child was put to
bed, he could sit on the other side of the fire with his beer on
the hob and his long white pipe in his fingers, conscious of her
there opposite him, as she worked at her embroidery, or as she
talked to him, and he was safe with her now, till morning. She
was curiously self-sufficient and did not say very much.
Occasionally she lifted her head, her grey eyes shining with a
strange light, that had nothing to do with him or with this
place, and would tell him about herself. She seemed to be back
again in the past, chiefly in her childhood or her girlhood,
with her father. She very rarely talked of her first husband.
But