“History repeats itself,” he remarked.
“How?” she asked calmly.
He was pulling at the heads of the cocksfoot grass as he walked.
“I see no repetition,” she added.
“No,” he exclaimed bitingly; “you are right!”
They went on in silence. As they drew near a farm they saw the men unloading a last waggon of hay on to a very brown stack. He sniffed the air. Though he was angry, he spoke.
“They got that hay rather damp,” he said. “Can’t you smell it—like hot tobacco and sandal-wood?”
“What, is that the stack?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s always like that when it’s picked damp.”
The conversation was restarted, but did not flourish. When they turned on to a narrow path by the side of the field he went ahead. Leaning over the hedge, he pulled three sprigs of honeysuckle, yellow as butter, full of scent; then he waited for her. She was hanging her head, looking in the hedge-bottom. He presented her with the flowers without speaking. She bent forward, inhaled the rich fragrance, and looked up at him over the blossoms with her beautiful, beseeching blue eyes. He smiled gently to her.
“Isn’t it nice?” he said. “Aren’t they fine bits?” She took them without answering, and put one piece carefully in her dress. It was quite against her rule to wear a flower. He took his place by her side.
“I always like the gold-green of cut fields,” he said. “They seem to give off sunshine even when the sky’s greyer than a tabby cat.”
She laughed, instinctively putting out her hand towards the glowing field on her right.
