She laughed. "You know Dymchurch, then? Isn't it nice when people know the same places? Almost as nice as it is when they've read the same books."
But the silence was not broken, only lifted. Her hand crept a little farther into the crook of his arm.
It was as they passed the spick-and-span white-painted windmill at New Romney that he said: "Don't you think it would be nicer to buy a windmill? There are four stories to that, and you can shift the top one around so that your window's always away from the wind."
"Yes," she said, "we really ought to buy a windmill."
The "we" lay warm at his heart until they came near Rye that stands upon its hill, looking over the marshes to the sea that deserted it so many years ago.
"There's a clock in Rye church that Sir Walter Raleigh presented to the town," he said, instructively.
"And Henry James lived there," said she.
"Shall we have lunch at the Mermaid Tavern? Or would you rather have a picnic? I've got a basket."
"How clever of you! Of course we'll have the picnic. And it's quite early. How beautifully the car is going!"