"You sound like a popular song," she whispered back.
She had never had a rendezvous with him before.
"Don't laugh," he pleaded. "Will you? Don't joke with me—now. Will you?"
She nodded, secretly overwhelmed.
"At nine o'clock," she told him.
VI
At half-past eight Hector left the house to walk to the stile.
The night was perfect—an ideal night in autumn—with all the mystery and magic that go with it. A harvest moon, like a great balloon of orange silk illuminated from within, rode low in the darkness, apparently tethered among ghostly trees in the heart of a valley beyond a sheaf-crowned ridge. A filmy veil, all shadowy blues and mauves and greys, invested day's familiar objects with a strange and supernatural beauty. The night air was soft and cool and murmurous with the music of innumerable insects. The wind sighed gently in the trees, with an eerie whisper, and brought with it a hundred subtle perfumes.
At nine o'clock he reached the stile.
She was there.