The name sounded to Warburton as if from a remote past. He repeated it several times to himself.
They stood with face turned toward the lurid south. The air was very still. From away down the river sounded the bells of Lambeth Church, their volleying clang softened by distance to a monotonous refrain, drearily at one with the sadness of the falling night. Warburton heard them, yet heard them not; all external sounds blended with that within him, which was the furious beating of his heart. He moved a hand as if to touch Rosamund's, but let it fall as she spoke.
"I'm afraid I must go. It's really raining—"
Neither had an umbrella. Big drops were beginning to splash on the pavement. Warburton felt one upon his nose.
"To-morrow," he uttered thickly, his tongue hot and dry, his lips quivering.
"Yes, if it's fine," replied Rosamund.
"Early in the afternoon?"
"I can't. I must go and see Bertha."
They were walking at a quick step, and already getting wet.
"At this hour then," panted Will.