Clifford stopped the chair at the top of the rise and looked down. The bluebells washed blue like floodwater over the broad riding, and lit up the downhill with a warm blueness.

“It’s a very fine colour in itself,” said Clifford, “but useless for making a painting.”

“Quite!” said Connie, completely uninterested.

“Shall I venture as far as the spring?” said Clifford.

“Will the chair get up again?” she said.

“We’ll try; nothing venture, nothing win!”