"Doesn't he now?" he smiled.
"Of course. But I don't see much of him now. He's at the Wolcotts' constantly. He's almost as fond of the Judge, you know, as he is of Molly."
"So I've heard," said Good with a curious little laugh which she did not understand.
"He has good stuff in him—and bad. I never knew which would triumph."
"And you never will," he said simply. "He's human, you know. But the odds are on your side now."
"I'm so glad—so glad—and so grateful...."
They were silent again. Suddenly the darkness fell, blotting out everything around them. Lights began to twinkle through the trees. A dog barked mournfully. It was much colder. As the daylight passed, the world passed with it. They were isolated, Judith's beauty and her home and the polish of her finger-nails as buried in oblivion as the gaunt ugliness of the man beside her. All the horde of little things, which in the day mattered so much, now seemed to matter not at all. They stood, naked of all trappings, soul to soul.
"I've got to go," muttered Good in a constrained, choked voice. "It's late." But he made no move. They continued to stare at each other.
"It's turning cold," she said—because she had to say something.
The man sighed heavily. "There will be no more days like this," he said, more to himself than to her.