For some minutes they sat opposite each other, swallowing scalding tea, crumbling cake upon their plates. Their first meal together, on which they had both set such store, had become an ordeal of mistrust and silence. The sunset was now ruddy on the woods, and the sky became full of little burning wisps of cloud, like brands flung out of the west. They hurried over the sky, and dropped behind a grass-grown hill in the east, crowding after one another, kindling from flame to scarlet, from scarlet to crimson. The wind came and fluttered again round the house—darkness began to drop into the room. Outside, a rainbow of colours gleamed and flashed in the sunset, as it struck the hammer ponds and the wet flowers of the garden—but the window looked east, and there was nothing but the firelight to wrestle with the shadows that crept from the corners towards the table. Soon the table with the food on it became mysterious, gloomed with shadows and half-lights—then the dimness crept up the bodies of Quentin and Janey, leaving only their white faces staring at each other. They had given up even the pretence to eat—their eyes were burning, and yet washed in tears.
Suddenly Janey sprang to her feet.
"I must go."
"Go—why, it's barely five."
"But I must."
He rose hurriedly. For a moment they faced each other over the unfinished meal, then Quentin came towards her.
"You're frightened, Janey?"
"Yes."
"Of me?"