Nur Jehan thought the place a horse’s paradise. He was coming on fast. In action over open country or on the verge of a road he was now quick to obey and intelligent. His only fault was in quieter movement — out of school, as it were — when he saw no reason why he should be prevented from light entertainment, such as trying to stamp his forelegs on silly chickens, or from stopping to eat whatever took his fancy.

About four in the afternoon I was grooming Nur Jehan, who had at last been taught to change from trot to canter with the off fore leading. The stallion was reproachful, for his mouth hurt — he was so unused to discipline that it would have hurt if he had been bitted with a velvet-covered willow twig —and I was completely absorbed in rewarding him with all the sensual pleasure which currycomb and brush could give.

I looked up suddenly at the sound of hooves, remembering that the Mauser was under my coat ten good yards away, and observed with relief the arrival of Benita. Under the circumstances my welcome showed more than the usual fatherly warmth. It must have sounded enthusiastic.

“How did you find us?” I asked.

“Well, your last postcard said you would pass one side or the other of Stow-on-the-Wold today. So Georgina asked a friend of hers to put me up for a couple of nights and lend me a pony. Daddy was getting anxious.”

I inquired no further. I was well aware of my aunt’s opinion, but I did not agree. I had no intention of letting Benita know what I thought of her and I did my best not to admit it to myself. It was not my business to know which of them had proposed the visit.

“After that it was easy,” Benita went on. “Georgina’s girl friend telephoned all the other horsy people, and we soon heard you were at the barn. Why don’t you stay at the farm and be comfortable?”

“Too many dogs,” I said. “Nur Jehan and I don’t like them.”

It evidently puzzled her that I, who was always looking around and behind me, should choose to sleep in so lonely a spot.

“You are not expecting anybody?” she asked.

That was too close to the bone. Since I detected a faintly jealous note in her voice, I replied with deliberate vulgarity that men of my age generally preferred luxury hotels to haystacks.

“But you,” she said, “would be quite likely to choose a gorse bush. What’s that under your coat?”

She had caught a glimpse of the Mauser in its holster as I moved my kit to make room for her between the smooth roots of a great beech. I told her that it was a wooden horseman’s flask and ascribed it vaguely to the Carpathians.

“What do you keep in it?”

“Wine. The wood gives a bitter taste. You wouldn’t like it.”

She looked disappointed. Some form of hospitality would ease the perceptible tension between us. I offered her whisky and spring water, which I mixed in vicar’s daughter proportions. I always found it difficult to remember that she was also a commercial artist.

I think it was because her face had that exquisite mixture of liveliness and innocence which belongs to seventeen rather than twenty-three, and is in any case more common among French than English. She had no lack of worldly wisdom. Her tough profession saw to that. She accepted life as it was; but she was rooted so firmly in her beloved countryside that life as it was seemed to her more to be enjoyed than pitied. I don’t mean that she was insensitive. She did not think of natural beauty as an escape from humanity. She had no need of escape at all.

“We have talked so much about you, Charles, since you left,” she said, when I had settled down on the dry leaves by her side.

I replied that I hoped Aunt Georgina had given me a good character.

“Not altogether. She said you had lost your youth before you had time to enjoy it.”

“No! I did enjoy it. Vienna, America, a profession which I loved —Good Lord, I knew I was having the time of my life!”

“I suppose she meant that you couldn’t pick it up again.”

I agreed that she probably did and was prepared to leave it at that.

“Don’t you ever feel that you belong here now?”

Her great, heavily lashed gray eyes were on me and forced me into sincerity. I pointed to the sweep of the turf, the golden stone walls and a church tower rising above the trees in a distant valley, all delicate and unreal in the beginning of the clear evening light. I told her how often in my ride I had thought of this as her country, each pervading the other, and how I longed to come out of my spiritual forests and could not. I tried to explain that I thought of myself as a European living gladly and appreciatively in England but that I had no real right to the union of love.

“Why on earth not?” she asked. “You have earned every right.”

“I haven’t earned anything.”

“Georgina has told me all about you, Charles,” she replied impatiently. “The Austrian underground and the Gestapo and the rescue of the women from Ravensbrück. And then you wouldn’t even take our George Cross. You are the most absurdly proud man I ever came across!”

I must admit I had never thought of myself as proud, and I said so.

She let me have it. No sweet seventeen about her at all. She reminded me of a falcon suddenly loosed from the fist: a lovely, brooding thing detonated into a bronze and silver arrow of energy.

“You’re still a boy,” she accused me. “You’ve never got over being the Graf von Dennim. You won’t admit there is anything higher than that. What you do is what you think a Dennim ought to do. You never take. You never give other people a chance. It’s all giving, giving, giving, by your own laws and nobody else’s. I wish to God the Dennims still owned half Europe or whatever they did own. And then perhaps you could just be content with giving away material things and not be too proud to take and not have to hide yourself in squirrels and that damned horse.”

“About Nur Jehan,” I said, firmly changing the subject after a silence. “We all accept so much nonsense without thinking. Of course he can be ridden by a woman!”

“Who has ridden him?”

“No one yet. But the cause is simple. Your legs aren’t long enough.”

“No?” she asked, looking along the slim length of her outstretched jodhpurs until she arrived at her toes.

“For Nur Jehan, I mean,” I replied desperately. “And Georgina’s legs are shorter still. He has a very sensitive rib — from an old wound probably. My heel goes behind and below it. Yours doesn’t and a boy’s wouldn’t. But your father and I have long legs, and so, I expect, did his former owner.”

I think Benita then remarked that it was delightful how kind old maids and bachelors were to animals, but I do not remember.

I am compelled to dehumanize her. I find that in writing autobiography you cannot please a woman. You are bound to say too much or too little for her. Benita complains with reason that I have devoted far more space to Nur Jehan than to her. But when I have ventured upon more detailed description either of her or of that late afternoon in the windbreak outside the barn, down comes the censorship upon my pages. She insists and very rightly that it is nobody’s business but our own.

And there was I with my utterly misplaced chivalry! I made one last effort by calmly identifying myself with the old maids and bachelors. We knew very well, I said, that we had plenty to give to an animal, but were too humble to believe we had much left to offer our fellows.

“Too proud,” she answered. “Suppose you or I died tonight, which would be older than the other?”

That was the end of my self-control. It should, of course, have doubled it. After all, I was quite likely to die that night — which was by far the best of all my reasons for pretending to Benita that my affection for her was fatherly. But I was so moved that I behaved like a boy of twenty who believes that no one has ever known such love before. And why the devil not? I very often do believe it.