Ah, Rose, Rose!
He is outside now. “Shut up, you fat idiot!” he hisses. Squeezing her yet more villainously with one arm, with the other he draws down the sash. Through the gate, into the lane, over the stream, down the ride, into the copse—up to the hut.
The outer door hangs grinningly upon its hinges. The door going to the inner room has a working latch; George kicks it open; elbows it to behind him; drops the Rose with jarring plump; strikes a match. There is the dusty pile of Old Tom bottles, there the little heap of bracken upon which Mrs. Major doubtless had reclined while with Old Tom she talked. Excellent!
The match goes out. He lights another. The Rose is standing forlornly at his feet. While the match lasts he lifts her to the bracken bed; presses her down; backs out; closes the door.
His watch, put beneath the moon, tells him it is upon one o'clock. He pulls to the outer door; wedges beneath it a stump of wood that keeps it firmly shut; makes for home.
In an hour he is sleeping the dreamless, childlike slumber that comes to those who, setting their hand to the plough, have manfully laboured a full day's work.