This fit of exaltation passed and the craving for her dominated him again and took psychological shape. He grew moody and abstracted. His voice had a new note in it to her ear. He was fighting with himself and did not guess what was in her mind, or how unconsciously it echoed to his.
At dusk the rain came and they ran before a sudden storm down the green hills back to West Haven. The place already sank into night and a lamp or two twinkled through the grey. It was past eight o'clock and Raymond decided for dinner.
"We'll go to the 'Brit Arms,'" he said, "and feed and get dry. The rain won't last."
"I told mother I should be home by nine."
"Well, you told her wrong. D'you think I'm going to chuck away an hour of this day for a thousand mothers?"
When they sauntered out into the night again at ten o'clock, the Haven had nearly gone to sleep and the rain was past. In the silence they heard the river rushing through the sluices to the sea; and then they set their faces homeward.
But they had to pass the old store-house. It loomed a black, amorphous pile heaved up against the stars, and the man's footsteps dragged as he came to the gaping gates and silent court.
He stopped and she stopped.
His voice was gruff and queer and half-choked.
"Come," he said, "I'm in hell, and you've got to turn it to heaven."