plants before her, evil-smelling figwort and hemlock. But he explored into it.

‘I shall mow this down,’ he said, ‘and then it will be romantic — like Paul et Virginie.’

‘Yes, one could have lovely Watteau picnics here,’ cried Ursula with enthusiasm.

His face darkened.

‘I don’t want Watteau picnics here,’ he said.

‘Only your Virginie,’ she laughed.

‘Virginie enough,’ he smiled wryly. ‘No, I don’t want her either.’

Ursula looked at him closely. She had not seen him since Breadalby. He was very thin and hollow, with a ghastly look in his face.