They found a farm-house set back in a little meadow, and a big chestnut-tree made them a green pavilion. The horses were left in the care of a lad who bit his thumb-nail and stared.
Jasper's attitude was one of impatient reserve. Every thought that came into his mind unrolled itself from the one word "if." If another face had been inside that bonnet. If other hands——! He had to sit there and listen to Rose Benham's thin suggestions, when love had become almost a ferocity, a tormented thing that was ready to break out into violence.
"There is only one glass, Jasper."
Her playful coyness made him feel evil.
"It doesn't matter."
When he drank he was careful to avoid the place that Rose's lips had touched. She noticed it, and her eyes registered the impression.
Her sentimental gaiety was like the buzzing of gnats in the sunshine. It intensified that other richer reality, that passion that had become akin to pain. Rose, too, had a way of asking direct questions, as exasperating a trick as pretending to tread on the toes of a gouty old man.
"You don't look very gay, Jasper. Are you sorry the French did not land?"
"Yes, I am."
"What a desperate mood! You ought to be in love."