She was not continuously conscious of this—sometimes she forgot Harry, sometimes he repulsed her, often she was afraid of him. But in moments of quiet her heart always gave her the same message, like distant music, drowned in a storm.
One day she was in the dairy at Odiam, skimming the cream-pans. The sunshine, filtered to a watery yellow by the March afternoon, streamed in on her, putting a yellow tinge into her white skin and white apron. Her hair was the colour of fresh butter, great pats and cakes of which stood on the slabs beside her. There was a smell of butter and standing milk in the cold, rather damp air. Naomi skimmed the cream off the pans and put it into a brown bowl.
Suddenly she realised that Reuben had come into the dairy, and was standing beside her, a little way behind.
"Hullo, Ben," she said nervously—it was one of her nervous days.
"How's the cream to-day?"
"Capital."
He dipped his finger into the pan, and sucked it.
"Oughtn't it to stand a bit longer?"
"I don't think so."
"Taste it——"