Chapter I begins with Harry Sterling’s return to Natterley, where he is no longer the gangly schoolboy the townspeople once knew. He now moves with the quiet confidence of youth on the cusp of adulthood. A cigarette rests between his lips—not smoked with bravado, but with the casualness of someone aware of the image he projects. At the lawn-tennis club, reactions to him vary. Young men nod in quiet approval, while younger boys look on with admiration laced with envy. The girls—older and younger—show a curious deference, uncertain whether to treat him as peer or possibility. Standing apart from the crowd, Mrs. Mortimer watches, startled by the grown presence of someone she remembered with uncombed hair and shoelaces forever undone. His transformation amuses her at first, but the amusement is tinged with something she doesn’t yet name. She sees a young man where once there was only a boy, and the change unsettles her.

At a glance, Harry’s approach to Mrs. Mortimer might seem innocent, but his intentions are shaded with something more deliberate. Skipping a chance to partner with the Vicarage girls, he chooses her company instead, and with practiced ease, begins to draw her into conversation that feels more like flirtation than formality. She tries to steer things toward the expected—his studies, his plans—but Harry seems uninterested in small talk about the future. He watches her face as she speaks, laughs more softly than is necessary, and sometimes says nothing at all, as if enjoying the silence between them. Mrs. Mortimer maintains her composure, reminding herself that she is a married woman with a son not far from Harry’s age. Yet inside her, a different awareness has begun to stir—of being noticed, of being seen beyond domestic roles and polite obligations. It thrills her. It frightens her. And most of all, it challenges the quiet order of her world.

As the summer days roll on, the line between polite interaction and private indulgence begins to blur. Mrs. Mortimer observes how Harry behaves around others, particularly Maudie Sinclair, the lively neighbor girl who once splashed through puddles with him and shared jam sandwiches in childhood. There is still warmth there, but the intimacy has shifted. Maudie laughs loudly, but Harry’s smiles are reserved, as though meant for someone else. Meanwhile, Mrs. Mortimer grows increasingly aware of Harry’s subtle attentions. He never oversteps, but his glances linger, and when he speaks, his words seem tuned to her reactions. The complexity of her emotions—embarrassment, anticipation, shame, and a strange kind of joy—swirls just beneath the surface. She finds herself thinking of him when she shouldn’t and scolding herself for it afterward. Yet the thoughts return uninvited, stronger each time, as if daring her to acknowledge them.

When the Mortimers are invited to dine with the Sterlings, the evening unfolds with social grace and quiet tension. Conversation flows freely around the table, yet beneath the chatter, Mrs. Mortimer senses Harry watching her. After dessert, as chairs scrape and guests prepare to depart, he is volunteered to escort her home. The suggestion is made casually, yet accepted with telling silence. Under the moon’s pale light, they take the longer path—not by necessity, but by quiet agreement. The night air is cool, the road familiar, but the mood between them is different. At one bend, where shadows fall thickest, Harry offers his arm, saying it’s for safety, though they both know better. She accepts, resting her hand lightly on his sleeve, and the gesture holds longer than it should. Neither speaks. The silence is not awkward, but charged—too dense to name, too subtle to ignore.

That evening walk becomes a turning point. Not because of any explicit act, but because of what it implies—what it awakens. In that brief time, Mrs. Mortimer realizes that something dormant within her has stirred. She had not asked for admiration. She had not sought attention. But it had come, and it had taken root in the space between propriety and possibility. As they part at her door, Harry tips his hat, says goodnight, and walks away with unhurried confidence. Inside, she stands by the window longer than necessary, staring into the night and feeling the pulse of her own unrest. There has been no scandal, no betrayal. Only a shift—one that may be denied, delayed, or dismissed—but not easily undone.