In Wilford churchyard the dahlias were
sodden with rain--wet black-crimson balls. No one was on the path that
went along the green river meadow, along the elm-tree colonnade.
There was the faintest haze over the silvery-dark water and the green
meadow-bank, and the elm-trees that were spangled with gold. The river
slid by in a body, utterly silent and swift, intertwining among itself
like some subtle, complex creature. Clara walked moodily beside him.
"Why," she asked at length, in rather a jarring tone, "did you leave
Miriam?"
He frowned.
"Because I WANTED to leave her," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I didn't want to go on with her. And I didn't want to marry."
She was silent for a moment. They picked their way down the muddy path.
Drops of water fell from the elm-trees.
"You didn't want to marry Miriam, or you didn't want to marry at all?"
she asked.
"Both," he answered--"both!"
They had to manoeuvre to get to the stile, because of the pools of
water.
"And what did she say?" Clara asked.
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