Calladine wheeled round. Clare came into the hut, and her face shone out like Lovel’s, both golden in the light, both arrested in the midst of their carelessness.
Lovel spoke to Calladine.
“This was the only place we had,” he said, “couldn’t you leave it to us?”
Clare looked at Calladine; her face wore that oblique, fugitive look which he had known, and loved, and dreaded.
She turned to Lovel, and they swayed towards one another as though something drew them.
“We had better go,” she said, inviting him.
“Yes,” he replied, drifting idly on the stream of her will, of their common will, one with her.
She gave him her hand, and in the gold light they hung briefly, transient creatures of eternal flight. The curtain of night and stars stretched behind them, in the rectangle of the open door.
“The scenery is set!” cried Calladine hysterically, pointing with his hand.