He looked at her as he went slower. "Is that the effect of Kökensee?" he said. "Why can't you walk like that? You're only a girl."
"I'm not a girl at all. I'm a wife, I'm a mother. I'm everything really now except a mother-in-law and a grandmother. That's all there's still left to be. I think they're rather dull things, both of them."
"You won't think so when you've got there."
"That's the dreadfullest part of it."
"It's a kindly trick Time plays on us. Are you a real pastor's wife who goes about her parish being an example?"
"I haven't yet. But I'm going to."
"What—not begun in eighteen months? But what do you do then all day long?"
"First I cook, and then I—don't cook."
They were out in the open, on the bit of road that passed between meadows. Ingram stopped and looked at something over to the left with sudden absorbed attention. She followed his eyes, but did not see much—a wisp of mist along the grass, the top twigs of a willow emerging from it, and above it the faint sky. He said nothing, and presently went on walking faster than ever.
"Please go a little slower," begged Ingeborg, her heart thumping with effort.