NOTES FROM A DIARY 125 



scythes ; laughing girls toss and shake 

 out the hay ; their voices float across the 

 river ; and at the close of day (the taking 

 of those seven fish is now only a vague 

 and lesser memory) that unforgettable 

 dank river smell when evening falls. The 

 whirring churr of nightjar ; the twilight 

 whisper of the green leafy world ; the 

 white ghost moths fluttering in the grass 

 as 1 came up the valley ; and often at 

 the coppice gate a lady met me. She 

 wore wooden sabots and an old brown 

 skirt. (Lest this should start a scandal, 

 I'll dedicate this book to her, should it be 

 ever finished.) There were others, too. 

 Mariic of the wondering eyes and sun- 

 burned, sturdy legs, and such a smile as 

 only Vermeer has once hinted at in his 

 chef (Toeuvre. Our first encounter was 

 upon the bridge. Mariic could barely 

 hold two plover's eggs in one small grimy 

 palm. She dimpled at our bargain, 

 promising more when we should meet 

 again (as if such a bribe were needed !). 

 We swapped those plover's eggs for 

 fat and speckled trout, and no one knew. 

 There was sedate Suzanne, who came and 



