‘Not yet. But I think I shall be soon, and so will you.’
‘And soon you’ll be cold, I’m afraid. Oh, Catherine——’
‘Well, I’m not cold yet,’ she interrupted him, smiling again, for what was the good of poor Christopher reproaching himself?
Peering into her face, white in the darkness, he could see she was smiling. He tucked the rug closer round her. He wanted to kiss her feet, to adore her for being so cheerful and patient, but what was the good of that? Nothing he did could convey what he thought of himself. There they were; and it was getting cold.
He fancied he heard a sound on the track above, and leapt up the bank.
Silence up there. Silence, and the stars, and the lonely lights of his deserted machine, and black down below, and all round emptiness.
He shouted again. His shout seemed to come back to him mournfully, from great distances.
By this time it was half-past nine.
He stayed up there, shouting at intervals, for half an hour, till his voice gave out. When he scrambled down again into the hollow, Catherine was asleep.
He sat down carefully beside her. He didn’t dare light a cigarette for fear the smell would wake her. It was better that she should sleep.