The light flickered, he could just see her head appear, with hair all loose, and her face turning up to him. He could only half see, half imagine it, mysterious, blurry; and he whispered:
“Isn't this jolly?”
The whisper travelled back:
“Awfully.”
“Aren't you sleepy?”
“No; are you?”
“Not a bit. D'you hear the owls?”
“Rather.”
“Doesn't it smell good?”
“Perfect. Can you see me?”