I looked about me at darkness and rain.
“That’s all right,” she laughed. “We can go along the lane and into the Old Woking Road. Do you mind? Of course you don’t. My head. It doesn’t matter. One never meets anybody.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve wandered like this before.... Of course. Did you think”—she nodded her head back at her home—“that’s all?”
“No, by Jove!” I cried; “it’s manifest it isn’t.”
She took my arm and turned me down the lane. “Night’s my time,” she said by my side. “There’s a touch of the werewolf in my blood. One never knows in these old families.... I’ve wondered often.... Here we are, anyhow, alone in the world. Just darkness and cold and a sky of clouds and wet. And we—together.
“I like the wet on my face and hair, don’t you? When do you sail?”
I told her to-morrow.
“Oh, well, there’s no to-morrow now. You and I!” She stopped and confronted me.
“You don’t say a word except to answer!”