"It isn't cold," he said, picking up a white cashmere shawl and flinging it across her bare shoulders. "Come."
A tone in his voice caught and held her wavering and turned it to decision. She rose.
They passed Stewart in the hall, on his way to the music room, his flute in his hand.
"We're going down to the shore for a little while," said Trevelyan, pausing before moving on.
Stewart nodded.
"Oh, all right. Don't get cold, Cary."
And he went on to the deserted music room.
Trevelyan led her down the little path to the beach. He talked in a matter of fact way on indifferent subjects, as though to set her at her ease. He smiled grimly to the darkness.
"She's afraid I'll forget myself," he kept thinking.
They came from out of the strip of woods and its shadows to the beach, stretching away on either hand in the distance, and sloping ahead of them into the sea that kissed it and then receded, holding it at arm's length before it embraced it again, as a lover does his sweetheart. The slow creeping up and retreating of the waters came faintly and soothingly to their ears. Far off a faint light appeared in the heavens, marking the rising moon. The burden of the day and the excitement of the battle crept off and were lost in the shadows.