Night was drawing near again; she would have to go. He was avoiding her.

But suddenly he came striding into the clearing, in his black oilskin jacket like a chauffeur, shining with wet. He glanced quickly at the hut, half-saluted, then veered aside and went on to the coops. There he crouched in silence, looking carefully at everything, then carefully shutting the hens and chicks up safe against the night.

At last he came slowly towards her. She still sat on her stool. He stood before her under the porch.

“You come then,” he said, using the intonation of the dialect.

“Yes,” she said, looking up at him. “You’re late!”

“Ay!” he replied, looking away into the wood.

She rose slowly, drawing aside her stool.

“Did you want to come in?” she asked.