“Ten miles walking for you! Why not both stay with her and see the sun rise? I’ve always wanted to spend a night in a car.”

In young Croom a struggle took place. A whole night with her—alone!

“D’you mean you’d trust me?”

“Don’t be old-fashioned, Tony. It’s much the best thing to do, and rather a lark. If a car came into us, or we were run in for driving without lights, that would be awkward if you like.”

“There’s never a moon when you want one,” muttered young Croom. “You really mean it?”

Clare touched his arm.

“Pull her further in, among the trees. Very slow. Look out! Stop!”

There was a slight bump. Clare said:

“We’re up against a tree, and our tail’s to the road. I’ll get out and see if anyone can see us.”

Young Croom waited, arranging the cushions and rug for her. He was thinking: ‘She can’t really love me, or she’d never take it so coolly!’ Quivering at the thought of this long dark night with her, he yet knew it was going to be torture. Her voice said:

“All right. I should say no one could see the car. You go and have a look. I’ll get in.”

He had to feel his way with his feet. The quality of the ground showed him when he had reached the road. It was less densely dark, but he could see no stars. The car was completely invisible. He waited, then turned to feel his way back. So lost was the car that he had to whistle and wait for her answering whistle to find it. Dark, indeed! He got in.

“Window down or up?”

“Half-way down, I should say. I’m very comfy, Tony.”

“Thank God for that! D’you mind my pipe?”

“Of course not. Give me a cigarette. This is almost perfect.”

“Almost,” he said in a small voice.

“I should like to see Aunt Em’s face. Are you warm?”

“Nothing goes through leather. Are you?”

“Lovely!” There was a silence; then she said: “Tony! Forgive me, won’t you? I did promise.”

“It’s quite all right,” said young Croom.

“I can just see your nose by your pipe’s glow.”

By the light of her cigarette he, in turn, could see her teeth, her smiling lips, her face lasting just to the eyes, and fading out.

“Take off your hat, Clare. And any time you like, here’s my shoulder.”

“Don’t let me snore.”

“YOU snore!”

“Everyone snores on occasion. This will be it.”

They talked for a little. But all seemed unreal, except just being beside her in the dark. He could hear now and again a car passing; other noises of the night there were none; too dark even for the owls. His pipe went out, and he put it away. She lay back beside him so close that he could feel her arm against his. He held his breath. Had she dropped off? Oh! He was in for a sleepless night, with this faint perfume from her egging on his senses and the warmth of her arm tingling into his. Even if this were all, it would be sheer waste to sleep. Drowsily she said:

“If you really don’t mind, I WILL put my head on your shoulder, Tony.”

“Mind!”

Her head snuggled down on to his scarf; and the faint perfume, which carried with it reminder of a sunny pine wood, increased. Was it credible that she was there against his shoulder, and would be for another six or seven hours? And he shuddered. So still and matter-of-fact! No sign in her of passion or disturbance; he might have been her brother. With the force of revelation he perceived that this night would be a test that he must pass; for if he did not she would recoil and drop away from him. She WAS asleep. Oh! yes. You couldn’t counterfeit that little regular cluck, as of the tiniest chicken—a perfect little sound, faintly comic, infinitely precious! Whatever happened to him now, he would have passed a night with her! He sat—still as a mouse, if mice are still. Her head grew heavier and more confiding with the deepening of her slumber. And, while he sat and listened, his feeling for her deepened too, became almost a passion of protection and of service. And the night, cold, dark, still—no cars were passing now—kept him company; like some huge, dark, enveloping, just breathing creature, it was awake. The night did not sleep! For the first time in his life he realised that. Night was wakeful as the day. Unlighted and withdrawn, it had its sentience—neither spoke nor moved, just watched, and breathed. With stars and moon, or, as to-night, lampless and shuttered, it was a great companion.

His arm grew stiff, and, as if that reached her consciousness, she withdrew her head but did not wake. He rubbed his shoulder just in time, for almost at once her head lolled back again. Screwing round till his lips just touched her hair, he heard again, chicklike and bland, that faint rhythmic cluck. It ceased and became the deeper breathing of far-down slumber. Then drowsiness crept on him too; he slept.

Young Croom awoke, stiff and unconscious of where he was. A voice said:

“It’s just getting light, Tony, but I can’t see to read the hymn.”

He sat up. “Heavens! Have I been asleep?”

“Yes, poor dear. I’ve had a perfect night, just a little achy in the legs. What’s the time?”

Young Croom looked at his watch’s illumined hands.

“Nearly half-past six. Pins and needles. Wow!”

“Let’s get out and stretch.”

His voice, far away, even from himself, answered: “And so it’s over.”

“Was it so terrible?”

He put his hands to his head, and did not answer. The thought that next night and all the nights to come he would be apart from her again was like a blow over the heart.

She opened the door.

“I’m going to stamp my feet a bit. Then we might have a stroll to warm ourselves. We shan’t get breakfast anywhere till eight.”

He started the engine to warm the car. Light was creeping into the wood; he could see the beech-tree against whose trunk they had passed the night. Then he, too, got out and walked towards the road. Still grey-dark and misty, the wood on either side of its dim open streak looked mournful and mysterious. No wind, no sound! He felt as Adam might have felt, dragging towards the Park Gates of Eden without having earned the right to be expelled. Adam! That quaint, amiable, white, bearded creature. Man before he ‘fell,’ a nonconformist preacher in a state of nature, with a pet snake, a prize apple, and a female secretary coy and unshingled as Lady Godiva! His blood began to flow again, and he returned to the car.

Clare was kneeling and attending to her hair with a pocket comb and mirror.

“How are you feeling, Tony?”

“Pretty rotten. I think we’ll shove along and have breakfast at Maidenhead or Slough.”

“Why not at home? We could be there by eight. I make very good coffee.”

“Fine!” said young Croom. “I’ll do fifty all the way.”

On that very fast drive they spoke little. Both were too hungry.

“While I’m getting breakfast, Tony, you can shave and have a bath. You’ll save time and feel comfy driving back. I’ll have mine later.”

“I think,” said young Croom, at the Marble Arch, “I’d better park the car. You go on in alone; it’s too conspicuous driving up at this time in the morning; the chauffeurs are sure to be working. I’ll slip along in ten minutes.”

When, at eight o’clock, he reached the Mews, she was in a blue wrapper, the little table in the downstair room was set for breakfast, and there was already a scent of coffee.

“I’ve turned the bath on, Tony, and you’ll find a razor.”

“Darling!” said young Croom. “Shan’t be ten minutes.”

He was back again in twelve, and sat down opposite to her. There were boiled eggs, toast, quince jam from Condaford, and real coffee. It was the most delicious meal he had ever eaten, because it was so exactly as if they were married.

“Aren’t you tired, darling?”

“Not a bit. I feel thoroughly chirped up. All the same, I don’t think we must do it again—too near the hambone altogether.”