On the fighting line itself there was probably a new crop of poets, hymning the Spring with Death for listener, as Julian Grenfell and Rupert Brooke had hymned it, in that first year of the war that seems now an eternity behind us.
Moving along a path converging on her own, Elizabeth perceived the Squire.

For the first time that morning he had put off their joint session, and she had not seen him all day.

Her mind was now always uneasily aware of him--aware, too, of some change in him, for which in some painful way she felt herself responsible.

He had grown strangely tame and placable, and it was generally noticed that he looked older.

Yet he was more absorbed than ever in the details of Greek research and the labour of his catalogue.