Olive would not budge. “The stars!” she shuddered. “Big, lonely worlds.”
Mrs. Wyndwood did not hear her. “Ah, there’s the Plough,” she said; “and there’s the Polar Star in a straight line, and there’s Cassiopeia. And that’s all I know. But, oh! surely they are havens of rest, where the tears are wiped from all faces.” Her voice faltered, her face was rapt as in prayer.
“Won’t you put something over your shoulders?” Matthew said, anxiously.
“No; it’s quite warm. Unless perhaps we take a turn up and down the beach before you go; shall we? It looks so divine out there.”
He was startled and intoxicated by the proposal.
“Won’t you come, too, Olive? It’s nearly ten o’clock. We must be sending them home to their farm, or Primitiva’s father will bar the door. Already we have a reputation for witchcraft because our house shines afar at eleven o’clock, a beacon of evil to all the neighboring hamlets. In London we should just be preparing to go out.”
“I am tired, Nor. You can have a turn, if you like. You go, too, Mr. Herbert.”
Herbert hesitated. “No, it wouldn’t be fair to leave you alone.”
“Does company prevent one from being alone?”
“I’ve got to have a turn in a moment, anyhow,” said Herbert, weakly. “A return, alas!”