It was cold in the street, and there was a light brown fog through which the street lamps shone yellowly.
The omnibuses crept by quietly, in a long string, making a muffled sound in the fog. As they went towards the nearest station a wind suddenly blew in their faces.
"It is the west wind," she said. "And it breathes of the spring."
"There will be no fog to-night," he answered. "See, it is lifting. The west wind will blow it away."
"It comes from fields and woods and mountains and the sea," she said dreamily.
The fog was indeed disappearing. The gas-jets shone more clearly; the 'buses broke into a decorous trot. The long line of lights came out suddenly, crossing each other like a string of many-coloured gems.
Outside the Tube station they paused as though the same thought had struck both of them.
"It is like the washing of the week before last," Mary said, as the indescribable odour floated out to them.
"Why not take a 'bus?" said he. "The air grows more delicious."
"Why not, indeed?" she answered. "Except that I shall be so late getting home. And it will keep you late for your dinner."