“I had to come back to you,” he said, as if hypnotized. “You were always at the back of everything.”
She was silent with triumph, like fate.
“I loved you,” she said, “always.”
The dark flame leaped up in him. He must give her himself. He must give her the very foundations of himself. He drew her very close, and they went on in silence.
She started violently, hearing voices. They were near a stile across the dark meadows.
“It’s only lovers,” he said to her, softly.
She looked to see the dark figures against the fence, wondering that the darkness was inhabited.
“Only lovers will walk here to-night,” he said.
Then in a low, vibrating voice he told her about Africa, the strange darkness, the strange, blood fear.
“I am not afraid of the darkness in England,” he said. “It is soft, and natural to me, it is my medium, especially when you are here. But in Africa it seems massive and fluid with terror—not fear of anything—just fear. One breathes it, like the smell of blood. The blacks know it. They worship it, really, the darkness. One almost likes it—the fear—something sensual.”