“Well?” he said.
“He’s a perfect beast, George. He won’t let us. He says we’re too young.”
“I was twenty last August,” he said, aggrieved.
“And I shall be seventeen in September.”
“And this is June. We’re quite old, really. How long does he mean us to wait?”
“Three years.”
“Three years before we can be engaged even— Why, we might be dead.”
She put her arms round him to make him feel safe. They kissed; and the sweet, hot, wine-scent of the elder flowers mixed with their kisses. They stood, pressed close together, under the elder tree.
Across the yellow fields of charlock they heard the village clock strike seven. Up in the house a gong clanged.