"You love them?" Her face bloomed with pleasure. "You know the dear mountains?"
He smiled.
"It doesn't do to think of them, does it? You should see the letters on my table! But I may have to take a few days' rest, some time. Should I find you in Long Whindale—if I dropped down on you—over Goat Scar?"
"Yes—from December till March!" Then she suddenly checked the happiness of her look and tone. "I needn't warn you that it rains."
"Doesn't it rain! And everybody pretends it doesn't. The lies one tells!"
She laughed.
They stood looking at each other. An atmosphere seemed to have sprung up round them in which every tone and movement had suddenly become magnified—significant.
Meynell recovered himself. He held out his hand in farewell, but he had scarcely turned away from her, when she made a startled movement toward the open window.
"What is that?"
There was a sound of shouting and running in the street outside. A crowd seemed to be approaching. Meynell ran out into the garden to listen. By this time the noise had grown considerably, and he thought he distinguished his own name among the cries.