“Yes, he sort of couldn’t take it for natural, all that pain. And it spoilt his pleasure in his bit of married love. I said to him: If I don’t care, why should you? It’s my lookout!⁠—But all he’d ever say was: It’s not right!”

“Perhaps he was too sensitive,” said Connie.

“That’s it! When you come to know men, that’s how they are: too sensitive in the wrong place. And I believe, unbeknown to himself, he hated the pit, just hated it. He looked so quiet when he was dead, as if he’d got free. He was such a nice looking lad. It just broke my heart to see him, so still and pure looking, as if he’d wanted to die. Oh, it broke my heart, that did. But it was the pit.”

She wept a few bitter tears, and Connie wept more. It was a warm spring day, with a perfume of earth and of yellow flowers, many things rising to bud, and the garden still with the very sap of sunshine.

“It must have been terrible for you!” said Connie.