Somers felt the yearning and amicable advance in the atmosphere. For some time he disregarded it. Then at last he went out to look at the nightfall. It was early June. The sun had set beyond the land, casting a premature shadow of night. But the eastern sky was very beautiful, full of pure, pure light, the light of the southern seas, next the Antarctic. There was a great massive cloud settling low, and it was all gleaming, a golden, physical glow. Then across the upper sky trailed a thin line of little dark clouds, like a line of porpoises swimming in the extremely beautiful clarity.
“Isn’t it a lovely evening again?” Victoria called to him as he stood on the summer-house top.
“Very lovely. Australia never ceases to be a wonderland for me, at nightfall,” he answered.
“Aha!” she said. “You are fond of the evening?”
He had come down from his point of vantage, and they stood near together by the fence.
“In Europe I always like morning best—much best. I can’t say what it is I find so magical in the evening here.”
“No!” she replied, looking upwards round the sky. “It’s going to rain.”
“What makes you think so?” he asked.
“It looks like it—and it feels like it. I expect Jack will be here before it comes on.”
“He’s late to-night, is he?”