The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. He had not proceeded far when he was alarmed by the tramp of a horse, which seemed to be rapidly approaching, and he had scarcely time to leap the hedge and conceal himself behind a tree, when a tall man, enveloped in an ample cloak, with his hat pulled over his brows, rode by at full speed. “Very well,” he said. “How are you feeling?” She asked. I wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. She and her husband have no children and ten computers.
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