a fold of sheep. Exposed in a large pen on the hillside, they were moving restlessly; now and again came the “tong-ting-tong” of a sheep-bell. First the grey creatures huddled in the high corner, then one of them descended and took shelter by the growing corn lowest down. The rest followed, bleating and pushing each other in their anxiety to reach the place of desire, which was no whit better than where they stood before.
“That’s like us all,” said Byrne whimsically. “We’re all penned out on a wet evening, but we think, if only we could get where someone else is, it would be deliciously cosy.”
Helena laughed swiftly, as she always did when he became whimsical and fretful. He sat with his head bent down, smiling with his lips, but his eyes melancholy. She put her hand out to him. He took it without apparently observing it, folding his own hand over it, and unconsciously increasing the pressure.
“You are cold,” he said.
“Only my hands, and they usually are,” she replied gently.
“And mine are generally warm.”
“I know that,” she said. “It’s almost the only warmth I get now—your hands. They really are wonderfully warm and close-touching.”
“As good as a baked potato,” he said.
She pressed his hand, scolding him for his mockery.
“So many calories per week—isn’t that how we manage it?” he asked. “On credit?”
She put her other hand on his, as if beseeching him to forego his irony, which hurt her. They sat silent
