he said. ‘France is far worse.’

‘Yes, I know. I felt I’d done with it all.’

They went and sat down on the roots of the trees, in the shadow. And being silent, he remembered the beauty of her eyes, which were sometimes filled with light, like spring, suffused with wonderful promise. So he said to her, slowly, with difficulty:

‘There is a golden light in you, which I wish you would give me.’ It was as if he had been thinking of this for some time.

She was startled, she seemed to leap clear of him. Yet also she was pleased.

‘What kind of a light,’ she asked.

But he was shy, and did not say any more.