To the right lay a field of stubble, ruddled with poppies, and to the right of that a little belt of trees. Teresa had long noticed how in autumn scarlet is the oriflamme of the spectrum; for round it the other colours rally at their gayest and most gallant. For instance, the dull red roofs of the cluster of barns to the right glowed like rubies, if one’s glance, before resting on them, travelled through the poppy-shot stubble; and, following the same route, her eye could detect autumnal tints in the belt of trees, which otherwise would have been imperceptible.
“How lovely poppies would be if they weren’t so ubiquitous,” said Guy. “I always think of poppies when I see all the Renoirs in the Rue de la Boétie in Paris—every second shop’s a picture dealer, and they all have at least two Renoirs in their window—dreams of beauty if there weren’t so many of ’em. And yet, I don’t know—that very exuberance, the feeling of an exquisite, delicate, yet unexigeant flower springing up in profusion in the lightest and poorest soil may be a quality of their charm.”
Teresa said nothing; but her brows slightly contracted.
Now they were walking past one of the few fields of barley that were still standing—all creamy and steaming ... oh, dear, that simile of Guy’s, in one of his poems, between a field of barley and a great bowl of some American patent cereal on a poster ... at any moment there might appear on the sky the gigantic, grinning face of the cereal-fiend, whose sole function was to grin with anticipative greed, and brandish a spoon on the point of being dipped into the foaming, smoking brew ... disgusting; and maddening that it should cling to her memory.
“Well, I suppose long ago the Danes and Saxons fought battles here; and the buried hatchet has turned the wild flowers red ... or does iron in the soil turn flowers blue?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Teresa coldly.
They walked on in silence for a few minutes.
As through the land at eve we went And plucked the ripened ears, My wife and I....
“My wife and I ... fell out ... how does it go?”
“Not like that, Guy,” said Teresa, with a short laugh.
Guy blushed to the roots of his yellow hair; he had a secret handicap of which he was horribly ashamed—practically no ear for rhythm; and it was partly the lameness of his verses that had made him fall back on a poetry that had neither rhyme nor rhythm.