midday
Bordering the latter , Wellingsford has an avenue of secular chestnuts of which it is inordinately proud . Dispersed here and there are wooden benches sanctified by generations of lovers . Carven thereon are the presentments , often interlaced , of hearts that have long since ceased to beat ; lonely hearts transfixed by arrows , which in all probability survived the wound and inspired the owner to the parentage of a dozen children ; initials once , individually , the record of many a romance , but now , collectively , merely an alphabet run mad . Phyllis entered the avenue , practically deserted at midday , and rested , a pathetically lonely little grey-uniformed figure on one of the benches . On the common , some distance behind her , stretched the lines of an Army Service train , with mules and waggons , and here and there a tent . In front of her , beyond the row of trees , was the towing-path ; an old horse in charge of a boy jogged by , pulling something of which only a moving stove pipe like a periscope was visible above the bank . Overhead the chestnuts rioted in broad leaf and pink and white blossom , showing starry bits of blue sky and admitting arrow shafts of spring sunshine .