Martin enjoyed the evening, partly from vanity (he had done some quite clever things), and partly because he could watch Viola Cartmell without being noticed. To watch her was heavenly. There was nothing subtle or analytic in his adoration: for him there was just an indivisible whole called Viola. And that was perfect.
At eleven Robert declared that he still had some of the Ethics left and retired to find out about the contemplative life. Mr Berrisford took Godfrey Cartmell to smoke a cigar in his study and the rest prepared to go to bed.
Martin went to his room and then came back and lingered by the staircase window. As he looked out he could see a solid line of fir-trees standing out with black severity against the moonlit sky, and farther away was the long shoulder of the moor—he could see the ridge they had climbed together and the rough peak which broke its symmetry and made its splendour.
Someone was coming up. It could only be Viola: the Berrisfords slept on the other side of the house.
It was she. Trembling, he heard the rustling of her skirts, the creaking of the stairs, her voice by his side.
"Hullo!" she said. "Star-gazing?"
"It's a great night," he answered.
She came and stood at the window. The closeness of her thrilled him.
"I wish those owls wouldn't hoot," she said. "Is that the ridge we climbed?"
"Yes. I did enjoy the walk."