They passed the narrow track to the hut. Thank heaven it was not wide enough for the chair: hardly wide enough for one person. The chair reached the bottom of the slope, and swerved round, to disappear. And Connie heard a low whistle behind her. She glanced sharply round: the keeper was striding downhill towards her, his dog keeping behind him.

‘Is Sir Clifford going to the cottage?’ he asked, looking into her eyes.

‘No, only to the well.’

‘Ah! Good! Then I can keep out of sight. But I shall see you tonight. I shall wait for you at the park–gate about ten.’

He looked again direct into her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she faltered.

They heard the Papp! Papp! of Clifford’s horn, tooting for Connie. She ‘Coo–eed!’ in reply. The keeper’s face flickered with a little grimace, and with his hand he softly brushed her breast upwards, from underneath. She looked at him, frightened, and started running down the hill, calling Coo–ee! again to Clifford. The man above watched her, then turned, grinning faintly, back into his path.

She found Clifford slowly mounting to the spring, which was halfway up the slope of the dark larch–wood. He was there by the time she caught him up.

‘She did that all right,’ he said, referring to the chair.

Connie looked at the great grey leaves of burdock that grew out ghostly from the edge of the larch–wood. The people call it Robin Hood’s Rhubarb. How silent and gloomy it seemed by the well! Yet the water bubbled so bright, wonderful! And there were bits of eye–bright and strong blue bugle...And there, under the bank, the yellow earth was moving. A mole! It emerged, rowing its pink hands, and waving its blind gimlet of a face, with the tiny pink nose–tip uplifted.

‘It seems to see with the end of its nose,’ said Connie.

‘Better than with its eyes!’ he said. ‘Will you drink?’

‘Will you?’

She took an enamel mug from a twig on a tree, and stooped to fill it for him. He drank in sips. Then she stooped again, and drank a little herself.

‘So icy!’ she said gasping.

‘Good, isn’t it! Did you wish?’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes, I wished. But I won’t tell.’

She was aware of the rapping of a woodpecker, then of the wind, soft and eerie through the larches. She looked up. White clouds were crossing the blue.

‘Clouds!’ she said.

‘White lambs only,’ he replied.

A shadow crossed the little clearing. The mole had swum out on to the soft yellow earth.

‘Unpleasant little beast, we ought to kill him,’ said Clifford.

‘Look! he’s like a parson in a pulpit,’ she said.

She gathered some sprigs of woodruff and brought them to him.

‘New–mown hay!’ he said. ‘Doesn’t it smell like the romantic ladies of the last century, who had their heads screwed on the right way after all!’