“You really wish to walk?”
“I not only wish to walk, I will walk.”
The still glory of frost had surely fascinated London, had subdued the rumbling and uneasy black monster; it seemed to Dion unusually quiet, almost like something in ecstasy under the glittering stars of frost, which shone in a sky swept clear of clouds by the hand of the lingering winter. It was the last night of February, but it looked, and felt, like a night dedicated to the Christ Child, to Him who lay on the breast of Mary with cattle breathing above Him. As Dion gazed up at the withdrawn and yet almost piercing radiance of the wonderful sky, instinctively he thought of the watching shepherds, and of the coming of that Child who stands forever apart from all the other children born of women into this world. He wished Rosamund were with him to see the stars, and the frost glistening white on the great stretches of grass, and the naked trees in the mysterious and romantic Park.
“Shall we take the right-hand path and walk round the Serpentine?” said Daventry presently.
“Yes. I don’t mind. Rosamund will be asleep, I think. She goes to bed early now.”
“When will it be?”
“Very soon, I suppose; perhaps in ten days or so.”
Daventry was silent. He wanted and meant to talk about his own affairs, but he hesitated to begin. Something in the night was making him feel very small and very great. Dion gave him a lead by saying:
“D’you mind my asking you something about the Clarke case?”
“Anything you like. I’ll answer if I may.”