Nevertheless such men as he have ideas of marriage, both romantic and austere.  They are inclined to claim what they give—­a clean sheet, and the first-fruits of body and soul.  In Rachel’s case the first-fruits had been wasted on a marriage, of which the ugly and inevitable incidents haunted Ellesborough’s imagination.  One moment he shrank from the thought of them; the next he could not restrain the protesting rush of passion—­the vow that his love should put her back on that pinnacle of honour and respect from which fate should never have allowed her to fall.

Well, she had promised to tell him her story in full.  He awaited it.  As to his own people, they were dear, good women, his mother and sisters—­saints, but not Pharisees.

It was a dark and lowering evening, with tempest gusts of wind.  But from far away, after he had passed Ipscombe, a light from one of the windows of the farm shone out, as though beckoning him to her.  Suddenly from the mouth of the farm, he saw a bicycle approaching.  The rider was Janet Leighton.  She passed him with a wave and a smile.

“Going to a Food meeting!  But Rachel’s at home.”

What a nice woman!  Looking back over the couple of months since he had known the inmates of the farm, he realized how much he had come to like Janet Leighton.  So unselfish, so full of thought for others, so modest for herself!  There couldn’t be a better friend for Rachel; her friendship itself was a testimonial; he reassured himself by the mere thought of her.

When he drew up at the farm, Hastings with a lantern in his hand was just disappearing towards the hill, and the two girls, Betty and Jenny, passed him, each with a young man, two members, in fact, of his own Corps, John Dempsey and another.  They explained that they were off to a Red Cross Concert in the village hall.  Ellesborough’s pulse beat quicker as he parted from them, for he realized that he would find Rachel alone in the farm.

Yes, there she was at the open door, greeting him with a quiet face—­a smile even.  She led the way into the sitting-room, where she had just drawn down the blinds and closed the curtains of the window looking on the farm-yard.  But his arrival had interrupted her before she could do the same for the window looking on the Down.  Neither of them thought of it.  Each was absorbed in the mere presence of the other.

Rachel was in her black Sunday dress of some silky stuff.  Her throat was uncovered, and her shapely arms showed through the thin sleeves.  The black and white softened and refined something overblown and sensuous in her beauty.  Her manner, too, had lost its confident, provocative note.  Ellesborough had never seen her so adorable, so desirable.  But her self-command dictated his.  He took the seat to which she pointed him; while she herself brought a chair to the other side of the fire, putting on another log with a steady hand, and a remark about the wind that was whistling outside.  Then, one foot crossed over the other, her cheek reddened by the fire, propped on her hand, and her eyes on the fresh flame that was beginning to dance out of the wood, she asked him,—­“You’d like to hear it all?”