its earthy fecundity, to see the patient wintry vegetation, to feel the sunshine touch a response in the buds.

She went back gladly to the house, full of hope. Birkin was reading, lying in bed.

‘Rupert,’ she said, bursting in on him. ‘I want to go away.’

He looked up at her slowly.

‘Do you?’ he replied mildly.

She sat by him und put her arms round his neck. It surprised her that he was so little surprised.

‘Don’t YOU?’ she asked troubled.

‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure I do.’