One evening in June, as Tess was walking in the garden, she heard Angel playing his harp. Although he was not a very good player, Tess was fascinated. She followed the music, stepping softly through the wet grasses and weeds, sending mists of pollen up into the air.

She stopped quite near to him, but he did not see her. The sounds of his harp passed through her like warm winds. Her body moved gently to the music, and her eyes filled with tears.

The tune ended, and Tess realised with alarm that he was walking towards her. She turned to go, but he called out to her, 'Why do you hurry away, Tess? Are you afraid?'

'Oh no, sir, not of outdoor things.'

'But you are afraid of indoor things?'

'Well - yes, sir.'

'What things?'

'I can't say.'

'Life in general?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Ah - I am often afraid of that too. But why should a young girl like you feel that way?'

She was silent.

'Come, Tess, tell me. I promise I will tell no one else.'

'I seem to see a long line of tomorrows getting smaller and smaller in the distance. They all seem very cruel. They all seem to say, "I'm coming! Beware of me!'"

He was surprised that she had such sad imaginings. She seemed to be expressing, in her own simple way, the feelings of the age - the pain of modernism. What we call advanced ideas, he thought, are really just the latest definition of sensations that men and women have been feeling for centuries. Still, it was strange that such ideas had come to her while she was still so young. It was more than strange: it was impressive, interesting, and pathetic.

Tess thought it strange that a well-educated young gentleman could be afraid of life in general. Why did such an admirable poetic man not feel it a blessing to be alive? Certainly he was now working outside his social class, but he did so of his own free will. Still, she wondered why such a book-loving, musical, thoughtful young man should decide to be a farmer and not a parson, like his father and brothers.

Every day, every hour, he learned one more little thing about her and she about him. At first she thought of him as an intellect rather than as a man. She compared her own modest world view to his and felt discouraged. One day, when he was talking about the ancient Greeks, he noticed that she looked sad.

'What's the matter, Tess?' he asked.

'I was just thinking about myself. My life has been wasted. When I see how much you have read and seen and thought, I feel what a nothing I am!'