She led the way to a gate in the hedge. Beyond, the bank dropped abruptly two or three feet to a tangle of tall sweet grasses, between the dark hedge and solid golden wall of wheat. They closed the gate and passed up the alley of grass till they came to the shelter of Mary's hawthorn tree. There they sank down, shut away from the glaring heat in a cool green world of scent and shadow.
"Oh, it's lovely here!" David laid aside his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. "Days like this were meant for idleness. You've no idea what bliss this is after Manchester."
"Is it? Is Manchester very bad?"
"Oh, it's not so bad really, I suppose, only rather stuffy, and I don't much like any city except London. They're all such cheap imitations."
He lay back luxuriously and, plucking a tall scabious flower, pressed its perfumed softness to his cheek.
"Is that why you came back?"
She had to say it.
"That and because Hunting wrote such glowing accounts of his work here. I had to come down and see whether he was as good a liar as I thought him."
"I suppose you're staying at the Flying Fox again?"
She did not dare to ask, "How long are you staying?"