She looked him over, and owned he was. But she did not want him; she wanted freedom and time to find out how much she liked Edward.
'Well, good neet to you,' she said. 'I'm off.'
She ran downhill into the wood.
Reddin hitched the reins to a tree and followed. He caught her and flung her into the bracken, and suddenly it seemed to her that the whole world, the woods, herself, were all Reddin. He was her sky, her cloak. The tense silence of the place was heavy on her.
Away at God's Little Mountain Edward preached his sermon on the power of prayer—how he could plant a hedge of prayer round the beloved to keep them from all harm.
The clock at Alderslea down the valley struck eight in muffled tones. They were burnt into Hazel's brain. The plovers wheeled and cried sadly like the spirits of creatures too greatly outnumbered.
Edward was a dream; God's Little Mountain was an old tale—something forgotten, mist-begirt.
Twilight thickened, and birds began to shrill in the dew. Voices came up from the farm. They were back from church. Hazel felt crushed, bruised, robbed.
'Now, up you get, Hazel!' said Reddin, who wanted his supper badly, and no longer wanted Hazel. 'Up you get and tidy yourself, and then home.' He felt rather sorry for her.
She made no comment, no demur. Instinctively she felt that she belonged to Reddin now, though spiritually she was still Edward's. She looked at Reddin, passive, doubtful; the past evening had become unreal to her.