It was midnight, probably; it felt midnight. The cigar in my hand had long ago gone out. On the lawn the heavy dew was glistening faintly; there was no light anywhere but starshine, and no sound anywhere but the voices.
Terry's voice. I heard him say: "Everybody gone to bed, of course. I've got the key, though."
And then, in answer, a whisper more to be felt than heard. "Oh, the lovely—lovely night! ... Terry, can't we go for another walk?"
That was June.... They had entered by the side-gate, and were standing, so far as I could judge, outside the back-door of the bar—perhaps thirty or forty yards away from me.
He said: "Now? Why, it's long past midnight. Hilton will be sitting up for me."
"Never mind—he won't care.... Oh, Terry—Terry—I feel so utterly miserable to-night—I don't want to go in at all."
"We must, June. It's too late to be out."
Silence for seconds—perhaps for a minute altogether.
And then: "Terry, are you going to take that job in Australia?"
I started so suddenly that my chair creaked, and I almost wondered if they would hear. But no ... the sound was drowned in a tiny murmur that swelled like a tide through the whole garden—as if the trees and the bushes and the tall hollyhocks were all stooping to listen to the answer.