Having made up her mind that a meeting was inevitable, Ivy made no more efforts to avoid one. By her absence on his first visit she had clearly shown Jerry how matters stood, and if he was fool enough to come again....

He was, of course. Ivy, unromantically on her knees at her usual business of scrubbing the kitchen boards, felt no annoyance at being so discovered, made no hasty grabs at her rolled-up sleeves, or at the loosening knob of her hair. She would not have done so for a more favoured lover, for none of her courtships had been of the kind that encourages neatness and daintiness in a woman, that leads to curlings and powderings. She knew that men liked her for her youth and health and [85] bigness, for her cheeriness and strength, and as all these things were natural to her she had no need to trouble herself with fakes.

“Hullo, Jerry,” she said, without looking up, and sending a swirl of soapy water round his boots.

“Hullo, Ivy. Why weren’t you in when I came last night?”

“Because I’d gone into Senlac wud Polly Sinden, as your father ud have told you, if you’d done wot you should ought and gone to him fust.”

“You’d no call to go into Senlac—not on the first night of my leave.”

“Your leave doan’t matter to me.”

“Ivy....”

He caught her wrist as she was dipping the scrubbing-brush in the bucket, and she was forced to meet his eyes at last. She had tried to avoid this, staring at her soapsuds, for Jerry’s eyes were “queer.” “Leave hold of me, Jerry.”

“Not till you stand up and look at me. I can’t speak to you on all fours like this.”

Ivy stood up, rather wondering at Jerry’s power to make her do so. He was a small fellow, but not of the stubby built of Tom or Harry Beatup. On the contrary, he was lightly made as a dancing-master, his hands and feet were small but very strong, his face was small and brown, lit by two large sloe-black eyes, with lashes long and curly as a child’s. His hair was curly too, in spite of its military cropping. He was a most slovenly-looking soldier, with tunic stained and buttons dim, and puttees looping grotesquely round his slim, graceful legs.

“If the M.P.’s git hold of you ...” began Ivy jeeringly.

[86]

“There ain’t any M.P.’s hereabouts. I’m on my leave, and you’re starting to spoil it already.”

“Wot have I got to do wud your leave? You’re maaking some sort gurt big mistaake, Jerry Sumption.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten that day at Senlac Fair?”

“And if I have, wot matter? It meant n............