“Yes—why not?” said Phyllis shortly. “There’s no harm in walking, is there?”
“That depends,” answered Irene.
Neither put what they said into words, and yet it got said—most clearly and definitely.
And that is where all books fail—they can only convey the unimportant word and are obliged to almost entirely leave out unspoken conversations—but it is always the unspoken conversation that matters.
CHAPTER XVIII
Andy leaned over the gate while the throb of the motor grew fainter—ceased—and the dew fell quietly upon the grassy edge of the lane. Already lights shone from the upper windows of the village, little stars of home twinkling out in brief, pathetic bravery an answer to the eternal repose of Charles’ Wain above the chimney stacks.
A sense of home wrapped Andy close as he stood there watching. During the last months he had gained a new capacity for love—that exquisite, human love of places which can never be explained to those who do not know it.
“Crunch! crunch!” sounded a faint footstep on the distant gravel of the churchyard path—then silence as the schoolmaster crossed the field—and a smell of tobacco in the night air close at hand.
“Good evening. Very pleasant out,” said Andy.