[J.R. Sinclair]

he came to the footpath she had told
him of, a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no
watch, but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick
underfoot that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and
began picking some partly to pass the time away, but also from a vague idea
that he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when
they met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint
sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him, the unmistakable crackle
of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to
do. It might be the girl, or he might have been followed after all. To look
round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell lightly
on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head, evidently as a
warning that he must keep silent, then parted the bushes and quickly led
the way along the narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that
way before, for she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston
followed, still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling was
relief, but as he watched the strong slender body moving in front of him,
with the scarlet sash that was just tight enough to bring out the curve of
her hips, the sense of his own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it
seemed quite likely that when s