pain too, which often bothered him now, a little dragging at his left side. He looked back up the hill. Really, poor youngBosinney had made an uncommonly good job of the house; he would have done very well for himself if he had lived! And wherewas he now? Perhaps, still haunting this, the site of his last work, of his tragic love affair. Or was Philip Bosinney’sspirit diffused in the general? Who could say? That dog was getting his legs muddy! And he moved towards the coppice. Therehad been the most delightful lot of bluebells, and he knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen inbetween the trees, away out of the sun. He passed the cow-houses and the hen-houses there installed, and pursued a path intothe thick of the saplings, making for one of the bluebell plots. Balthasar, preceding him once more, uttered a low growl.Old Jolyon stirred him with his foot, but the dog remained motionless, just where there was no room to pass, and the hairrose slowly along the centre of his woolly back. Whether from the growl and the look of the dog’s stivered hair, or from thesensation which a man feels in a wood, old Jolyon also felt something move along his spine. And then the path turned, andthere was an old mossy log, and on it a woman sitting. Her face was turned away, and he had just time to think: ‘She’strespassing — I must have a board put up!’ before she turned. Powers above! The face he had seen at the opera — the verywoman he had just been thinking of! In that confused moment he saw things blurred, as if a spirit — queer effect — the slantof sunlight perhaps on her violet-grey frock! And then she rose and stood smiling, her head a little to one side. Old Jolyonthought: ‘How pretty she is!’ She did not speak, neither did he; and he realized why with a certain admiration. She was hereno doubt because of some memory, and did not mean to try and get out of it by vulgar explanation.

“Don’t let that dog touch your frock,” he said; “he’s got wet feet. Come here, you!”