"Oh, how ripping!..."
Nigel looked round him. A cottage belonging to Goatsluck Farm was close at hand—one of those dwarfed, red cottages, where the windows gleam like eyes under the steep roof.
"Let's ask there," he said, "perhaps we can have it in the garden."
The labourer's wife was only too glad of a little incident and pence-earning. She laid a table for them by a clump of lilac bushes, now bare. One or two chrysanthemums were still in bloom, and sent their damp sweetness to the meal that Nigel and Tony had together. It was a very plain meal—only bread and butter and tea, but simplicity and bread and butter had now become vital things to Furlonger. Neither he nor Tony spoke much, but their silences were no less happy than the words that broke them.
The sun had set, a hazy crimson smeared the west, and above it hung one or two dim stars. A little cold wind rustled suddenly in the bushes, and fluttered the table-cloth. Tony's face was pale in the twilight, and her eyes looked unnaturally large and dark. Then she and Nigel realised that they were both leaning forward over the table, as if they had something especially important to say to each other....
The wind dropped suddenly, and the fogs swept up and veiled the stars. The crimson deepened to purple in the west.
"Are you cold?" asked Furlonger awkwardly, and drew back.
"No, thank you," said Tony, and leaned back too.
A few minutes later they rose to go. It was half-past five, and strange shadows were in the lanes, where the ruts and puddles gleamed. An owl called from Ashplats Wood. The November dusk had suddenly become chill. Nigel slipped off his overcoat and wrapped it round Tony.
"I don't want it," he insisted. "Oh, what a funny little thing you look!"