‘Aren’t we mad?’
His voice rang boyishly, happily.
Now came the snow, thinly at first, but soon in wild drifting clouds, blotting out the road, settling thick and fast over all, sifting and piling on the wind-screen.
‘Oh Lord, we must turn,’ said Roddy. ‘This is frightful.’
He turned the car and then stopped her to light a cigarette. She saw his face, lit by the flare of the match, glow suddenly, warmly out of the darkness with unknown curves and strange planes of light and shadow, and narrowed eyes, eyes not human, never-to-be-forgotten.
He waved the dwindling flame in her face.
‘Solemn face! What are you staring at? Smile—quick, quick, before the match goes out!’
The match went out.
‘I am smiling, Roddy.’
‘That’s right. Poor Judy covered with snow! There you sit, so modest and unassuming. Shall I get you home alive?’