She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. ‘It had better not be, by God,’ had barked Captain Hilary Roding. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. Completely overcome by fatigue, with strained muscles, and bruised hands; streaming with perspiration, and with lips so parched that he would gladly have parted with a treasure if he had possessed it for a draught of water; he sank against the wall, and while in this state was seized with, a sudden and strange alarm. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. She was a swan among geese, trying to look plain and dowdy. She was recalling the circumstances under which she had engaged herself to Manning, and trying to understand a curious development of the quality of this relationship.
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