A Girl, sits crouched over her knees on a stile close to a river. A Man with a silver badge stands beside her, clutching the worn top plank. The Girl’s level brows are drawn together; her eyes see her memories. The Man’s eyes see The Girl; he has a dark, twisted face. The bright sun shines; the quiet river flows; the Cuckoo is calling; the mayflower is in bloom along the hedge that ends in the stile on the towering path.

The Girl: God knows what ‘e’ll say, Jim.

The Man: Let ‘im. ‘E’s come too late, that’s all.

The Girl: He couldn’t come before. I’m frightened. ‘E was fond o’ me.

The Man: And aren’t I fond of you?

The Girl: I ought to ‘a waited, Jim; with ‘im in the fightin’.

The Man: (Passionately) And what about me? Aren’t I been in the fightin’ -- earned all I could get?

The Girl: