Again she looked at him quizzically.

‘I should be perfectly happy at the Mill,’ she said.

‘It’s very near the old thing,’ he said. ‘Let us wander a bit.’

His voice could be so soft and happy-go-lucky, it went through her veins like an exhilaration. Nevertheless she dreamed of a valley, and wild gardens, and peace. She had a desire too for splendour — an aristocratic extravagant splendour. Wandering seemed to her like restlessness, dissatisfaction.

‘Where will you wander to?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. I feel as if I would just meet you and we’d set off — just towards the distance.’