There the conversation again broke down.

Brangwen's companions were ready to go on.

“Art commin', Tom,” they called, “or art for stoppin'?”

“Ay, I'm commin',” he replied, rising reluctantly, an angry sense of futility and disappointment spreading over him.

He met the full, almost taunting look of the girl, and he trembled with unusedness.

“Shall you come an' have a look at my mare,” he said to her, with his hearty kindliness that was now shaken with trepidation.

“Oh, I should like to,” she said, rising.

And she followed him, his rather sloping shoulders and