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And all
the time Paul was sporting with Clara. He made higher and higher heaps
of hay that they were jumping over. Miriam did not care for the game,
and stood aside. Edgar and Geoffrey and Maurice and Clara and Paul
jumped. Paul won, because he was light. Clara's blood was roused. She
could run like an Amazon. Paul loved the determined way she rushed at
the hay-cock and leaped, landed on the other side, her breasts shaken,
her thick hair come undone.
"You touched!" he cried. "You touched!"
"No!" she flashed, turning to Edgar. "I didn't touch, did I? Wasn't I
clear?"
"I couldn't say," laughed Edgar.
None of them could say.
"But you touched," said Paul. "You're beaten."
"I did NOT touch!" she cried.
"As plain as anything," said Paul.
"Box his ears for me!" she cried to Edgar.
"Nay," Edgar laughed. "I daren't. You must do it yourself."
"And nothing can alter the fact that you touched," laughed Paul.
She was furious with him. Her little triumph before these lads and men
was gone.


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