As they passed the dark spot under the tree where Helen had been sitting when he had stolen up behind her, mistaking her for another, it might have occurred to both that it would be an awkward stroll if the monstrous fact of the war's proximity had not dwarfed personal concerns. From the terrace they could hear the creaking of wheels on the road, though the battery behind the trees was silent. No movement of the gunners, who had dropped asleep in exhaustion. In the distance were still occasional flashes. Hundreds of thousands of men were moving over there under cover of darkness or sleeping on the dew-moist fields before the morrow's action.
"And one does not know when one will ever be here again," she said.
"The portrait unfinished, too," he suggested.
"Yes. What a happy time we have had doing it!" she exclaimed.
"You had, too?" he asked.
"Of course I had. And we are going to finish it, aren't we, cousin, at Truckleford? Won't you come there?"
She put her hand on his arm with a slight pressure—a cousinly privilege. The moonlight was strong enough to make her features visible; the dark hair and brows, the shining eyes and the smiling lips. She was very beautiful, unreally so, there in the moonlight. She knew and he knew that she knew what had happened three hours ago, before the war had come to Mervaux. Her hand was still on his arm. He took it in his and she did not protest.
"Yes! How could I resist?" he exclaimed. "I——"
"Agreed! You've promised!" she cried triumphantly, giving his hand a shake and drawing away. "Now to finish the infernal trunk and on to Truckleford!"
"Isn't there some packing I can do?" he asked when they reached the house. "I feel utterly helpless."