"How is Lily?" Maurice asked.
"Fairly well," the Canon said.
"She is still at the inn?"
"No, she lately moved into a little house further up the valley."
"Further up the valley," Maurice said. "But there's only one other house in that direction. I have been there you know," he added hastily.
"Lily told me you had stayed there."
"Well, but—" Maurice persisted, "there is only one house, a private house."
"They have been building up there," the Canon said evasively. "Houses are springing up. It is a pity. Good-night."
And he turned and walked away. Maurice stood looking after him. So they had been building in the valley, and End Cottage no longer possessed the distinction of being the finale of man in that Arcadia of woods and streams, and rugged hills on which the clouds brooded, from which the rain came like a mournful pilgrim, to weep over the gentle shrine of nature.
So they had been building in the valley.