"It's like my life has been without you," said Maurice.
"Shut up," she stabbed again, "and don't talk silly. Your life's been quite all right till you took a sudden fancy to see me again."
"Walk carefully," said Maurice humbly. "We're very near the cliff's edge."
Land and air met in a wreathed obscurity.
They scrambled down into Crickabella, slipping on the pulpy leaves of withered bluebells, stumbling over clumps of fern and drenching themselves in the foxgloves, whose woolly leaves held the dripping fog.
"This is where I often used to sit," said Jenny. "Only it's too wet in the grass now. There's a rock here that's fairly dry, though it does look rather like a gravestone sticking up out of the ground."
They were now about half-way down the escarpment from the top of which the rampart of black cliff, sheer on either side of the path, ran up for twenty feet, so far as could be judged in the deceptive atmosphere. Jenny leaned against the stone outcrop and faced Maurice.
"Jenny," he began, "when I didn't turn up at Waterloo that first of May, I must have been mad. I don't want to make excuses, but I must have been mad."
"Yes, we can all say that, when we've done something we shouldn't have."