Janet Furlonger and Quentin Lowe had met to say good-bye in Furnace Wood. The scent of spring was in Janey's clothes, and when her lover drew her head down to his shoulder he tasted spring in her hair. But there was not spring on her lips when he sought them—only the salt wash of sorrow.
"Why do you cry, little Janey? This is the beginning of hope."
Another tear slid down towards her mouth, but she wiped it away—he must not drink her tears.
"Quentin ... I hope it won't be for long."
"No, no—not long, little Janey, sweet, not long. It can't be. In six months, perhaps in less, you'll have a letter asking you to come up to town and marry a poor but independent journalist."
"You really think that this time you're going to succeed?"
"Of course. Do you imagine I'd touch Rider's idiotic rag with the tongs if I didn't look on it as a stepping-stone to better things. There's a mixed metaphor, Janey. Didn't you notice it?"
"No, dear."
"You're not critical enough, little one. You're worthy of good prose—when I'm too weak and heavy-hearted for poetry."