Chapter V Part II Cold is the ogre that drives all beautiful

things into hiding.

Below the surface of a frost-bound garden, their lurk hidden

bulbs, which are only biting their time to burst forth in a riot

of laughing color.

But shivering nature dare not put forth her flowers until the ogre has gone.

Not otherwise, does cold, suppress love.

A man in an open cart on an English spring night may continue to be in love.

But love is not the emotion uppermost in his bosom.

It shrinks within him and waits for better times.

The cart was not a covered cart.

It was open to the four winds of heaven, of which the one at present

active proceeded from the bleak east.

To this fact may be attributed ashes swift recovery from the exalted

mood into which Joan's smile had thrown him.

His almost instant emergence from the trance.

Deep down in him he was aware that his attitude towards Joan had not changed.

But his conscious self was too fully occupied with the almost hopeless

task of keeping his blood circulating to permit of thoughts of love.

Before the cart had traveled twenty yards, he was a mere chunk of frozen

misery.

The stern eternity of winding roads, darkened cottages and black fields

...