He was a bit early. There had been no difficulties about the journey， and the girl was so evidently experienced that he was less frightened than he would normally have been. Presumably she could be trusted to find a safe place. In general you could not assume that you were much safer in the country than in London. There were no telescreens， of course， but there was always the danger of concealed microphones by which your voice might be picked up and recognized； besides， it was not easy to make a journey by yourself without attracting attention. For distances of less than 100 kilometres it was not necessary to get your passport endorsed， but sometimes there were patrols hanging about the railway stations， who examined the papers of any Party member they found there and asked awkward questions. However， no patrols had appeared， and on the walk from the station he had made sure by cautious backward glances that he was not being followed. The train was full of proles， in holiday mood because of the summery weather. The wooden-seated carriage in which he travelled was filled to overflowing by a single enormous family， ranging from a toothless great-grandmother to a month-old baby， going out to spend an afternoon with “in-laws” in the country， and， as they freely explained to Winston， to get hold of a little blackmarket butter.
The lane widened， and in a minute he came to the footpath she had told him of， a mere cattle-track which plunged between the bushes. He had no watch， but it could not be fifteen yet. The bluebells were so thick underfoot that it was impossible not to tread on them. He knelt down and began picking some partly to pass the time away， but also from a vague idea that he would like to have a bunch of flowers to offer to the girl when they met. He had got together a big bunch and was smelling their faint sickly scent when a sound at his back froze him， the unmistakable crackle of a foot on twigs. He went on picking bluebells. It was the best thing to do. It might be the girl， or he might have been followed after all. To look round was to show guilt. He picked another and another. A hand fell lightly on his shoulder.
He looked up. It was the girl. She shook her head， evidently as a warning that he must keep silent， then parted the bushes and quickly led the way along the narrow track into the wood. Obviously she had been that way before， for she dodged the boggy bits as though by habit. Winston followed， still clasping his bunch of flowers. His first feeling was relief， but as he watched the strong slender body moving in front of him， with the scarlet sash that was just tight enough to bring out the curve of her hips， the sense of his own inferiority was heavy upon him. Even now it seemed quite likely that when she turned round and looked at him she would draw back after all. The sweetness of the air and the greenness of the leaves daunted him. Already on the walk from the station the May sunshine had made him feel dirty and etiolated， a creature of indoors， with the sooty dust of London in the pores of his skin. It occurred to him that till now she had probably never seen him in broad daylight in the open. They came to the fallen tree that she had spoken of. The girl hopped over and forced apart the bushes， in which there did not seem to be an opening. When Winston followed her， he found that they were in a natural clearing， a tiny grassy knoll surrounded by tall saplings that shut it in completely. The girl stopped and turned.
“Here we are，” she said.
He was facing her at several paces’distance. As yet he did not dare move nearer to her.
“I didn’t want to say anything in the lane，” she went on， “in case there’s a mike hidden there. I don’t suppose there is， but there could be. There’s always the chance of one of those swine recognizing your voice. We’re all right here.”
He still had not the courage to approach her. “We’re all right here？” he repeated stupidly.
“Yes. Look at the trees.” They were small ashes， which at some time had been cut down and had sprouted up again into a forest of poles， none of them thicker than one’s wrist. “There’s nothing big enough to hide a mike in. Besides， I’ve been here before.”
They were only making conversation. He had managed to move closer to her now. She stood before him very upright， with a smile on her face that looked faintly ironical， as though she were wondering why he was so slow to act. The bluebells had cascaded on to the ground. They seemed to have fallen of their own accord. He took her hand.
“Would you believe，” he said， “that till this moment I didn’t know what colour your eyes were？” They were brown， he noted， a rather light shade of brown， with dark lashes. “Now that you’ve seen what I’m really like， can you still bear to look at me？”
“Yes， easily.”
“I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve got a wife that I can’t get rid of. I’ve got varicose veins. I’ve got five false teeth.”
“I couldn’t care less，” said the girl.
The next moment， it was hard to say by whose act， she was in his arms. At the beginning he had no feeling except sheer incredulity. The youthful body was strained against his own， the mass of dark hair was against his face， and yes！ Actually she had turned her face up and he was kissing the wide red mouth. She had clasped her arms about his neck， she was calling him darling， precious one， loved one. He had pulled her down on to the ground， she was utterly unresisting， he could do what he liked with her. But the truth was that he had no physical sensation， except that of mere contact. All he felt was incredulity and pride. He was glad that this was happening， but he had no physical desire. It was too soon， her youth and prettiness had frightened him， he was too much used to living without women — he did not know the reason. The girl picked herself up and pulled a bluebell out of her hair. She sat against him， putting her arm round his waist.
“Never mind， dear. There’s no hurry. We’ve got the whole afternoon. Isn’t this a splendid hide-out？ I found it when I got lost once on a community hike. If anyone was coming you could hear them a hundred metres away.”
“What is your name？” said Winston.
“Julia. I know yours. It’s Winston — Winston Smith.”
“How did you find that out？”
“I expect I’m better at finding things out than you are， dear. Tell me， what did you think of me before that day I gave you the note？”
