“What anniversary is it, then?” he inquired.
“Exactly a year today, Siegmund and I walked here—by the day, Thursday. We went through the larch-wood. Have you ever been through the larch-wood?”
“No.”
“We will go, then,” she said.
“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 wagon of hay on to a very brown stack. He sniffed the air. Though he was angry, he spoke.