Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. ‘Aha,’ grunted Gerald with satisfaction, squinting up at the two open shutters on the second floor. “I do,” he answered. But he only went home again to Paddington. Passing the old rectory, and still older church, with its reverend screen of trees, and slowly ascending a hill side, from whence he obtained enchanting peeps of the spire and college of Harrow, he reached the cluster of well-built houses which constitute the village of Neasdon. What she admired in her man was his resolute defense of his opinions. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War.
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