He saw himself a tiny boy with thin black hair and grave eyes watching his father as he bathed in the mill-pool below the house--his father rising naked from the stream, hung with the mists of early morning, naked with enormous chest, huge flanks, his beard black then and sweeping across his breast, his great thighs shining with the dripping water--primitive, primeval, in the heart of the early morning silence.
Many, many other pictures of those first days, but always Olva and his father, moving together, speaking but seldom, sitting before the fire in the evenings, watching the blaze, despising the world.

The contempt that his father had for his fellow-beings! Had a man ever been so alone?
Olva himself had drunk of that same contempt and welcomed his solitude at Harrow.

The world had been with him a place of war, of hostility, until he had struck that blow in Sannet Wood.

He remembered the eagerness with which, at the end of term, he had hastened back to his father.

After the noise and clatter of school life how wonderful to go back to the still sound of dripping water, to the crackle of dry leaves under foot, to the heavy solemn tread of cattle, to those evenings when at his father's side he heard the coals click in the fire and the old clock on the stairs wheeze out the passing minutes.