“Won’t it?” she answered.
Of the thing each had at heart, neither dared speech. . . .
§ 5
Twilight had come in gold and gone in crimson: only faintest hints of greens and lilacs still lingered low down on the horizon. Eynsham Bridge was a humped black shadow across the dulled silver of the stream. Eynsham hills stood out in clear sepia against a turquoise sky.
“Good-night,” called the weir-man.
“Good-night,” they called back to him.
Now, they were utterly alone. The weir plunged and gurgled; a fish leaped in the pool. Darker it grew, and darker.
They could hardly see each other across the rug which had served them for dinner-table.
“Shall I light the candles in the tent?” he asked.
“If you like, dear.”