We walk in silence through the sombre avenue. The night seems darker because no sound disturbs its stillness; only the dead leaves, swept along by our skirts, drag along, utter a cry like rending silk.
Rose sighed:
"One would think the air was listening!"
I could not help exclaiming:
"That's rather fine, what you said then!"
And silence closes in again around our two little lives, both doubtless stirred by one and the same thought.
We go a little farther and sit down in the fields, where an unfinished haystack offers us a couch. We can hardly distinguish the line of the horizon between the dark earth and the dark sky. A bat flits across our faces; and Rose says, quietly:
"It's flying low. That means fine weather to-morrow. I must get in the...."
And suddenly her voice breaks and she covers her face with her hands. All is silent....
I feel myself brutally good. The certainty of the coming confession encourages me in my coldness and I remain mute, while my heart is beating with pity and excitement....