"What is it?"
"That monk—! I could have sworn—! Over there by the big silver birch—! I can't see him now. Can you make out anything?"
Side by side they leaned from the window, striving to accustom their eyes to the starlit night. A long minute passed.
"I must have been mistaken." Miss Ocky drew a long breath. "A shadow from a swaying bough—or imagination."
"There isn't wind enough to sway a twig!" he corrected curtly. He lingered a while longer, his angry gaze continuing to search the darkness, before he drew back into the room. "It's quite likely you saw him," he muttered. "No doubt he saw you, too, and heard you—and has slunk off with his tail between his legs!" He half made to pull down the sash, then contemptuously refrained. "I'd like to get my hands on him!" His fingers curled longingly.
After a moment's hesitation, she accepted his dismissal of the subject. She stepped back and confronted him.
"To return, then—divorce, Simon?"
"Never!" He fairly barked it.
"I know of just one thing to your credit, Simon," said Miss Ocky rather sadly, rather dully. "You do mean what you say. I must accept your decision as—final."
"You must!" The interlude had braced him. "And—what are you going to do about it?"