They were through the gate now, walking side by side over the grass-grown, heavy rutted track that leads past the barns of Dinglesden down the Tillingham marsh, between the river and the hop-gardens. Jenny was glad they were off the road—soon they would be out of sight of it. The hop-gardens that covered the slope and threw a steamy, drowsy scent into the heaviness of the day, would hide them completely from anyone who went by. She began to feel very much alone with Godfrey ... and still neither of them spoke. They had not spoken since they had left the road.
Only a few hundred yards brought them to the turn of the valley, where the Tillingham swings southward towards Rye. Behind them the farm and the bridge were shut out by the sloping hop-gardens, before them the marsh wound, a green street, between the sorrel-rusted meadows, with the Mocksteeple standing gaunt and solitary on the hill below Barline.
“It’s very good of you to have come,” said Ben.
“I—I wanted to come.”
He checked his horse, and they stood still.
“You—you don’t think it cheek—I mean, that I’m taking a liberty—in wanting to know you?”
“No....”
“When you came that evening to the farm, I—I wanted to say all sorts of things, and I didn’t like ... for I didn’t know....”
“I should like to be your friend.”
Her voice came firmly at last.