ar, the same long anxiety, the deferred inevitable
blow, and the black silence. It has always been the same; it will always
be the same. It is one of the things that must be.

And it was Elizabeth who was the first to speak, after an aching, dull
interspace of days: not, indeed, of the foolish little name that was a
name no longer, but of the darkness that brooded over her soul. They had
come through the shrieking, tumultuous ways of the city together; the
clamour of trade, of yelling competitive religions, of political appeal,
had beat upon deaf ears; the glare of focussed lights, of dancing
letters, and fiery advertisements, had fallen upon the set, miserable
faces unheeded. They took their dinner in the dining-hall at a place
apart. "I want," said Elizabeth clumsily, "to go out to the flying
stages--to that seat. Here, one can say nothing...."

Denton looked at her. "It will be night," he said.

"I have asked,--it is a fine night." She stopped.

He perceived she could find no words to explain herself. Suddenly he
understood that she wished to see the stars once more, the stars they
had watched together from the open downland in that wild honeymoon of
theirs five years ago. Something caught at his throat. He looked away
from her.

"There will be plenty of time to go," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

And at last they came out to their little seat on the flying stage, and
sat there for a long time in silence. The little seat was in shadow, but
the zenith was pale blue with the effulgence of the stage overhead, and
all the city spread below them, squares and circles and patches of
brilliance caught in a mesh-work of light. The little stars seemed very
faint and small: near as they had been to the old-world watcher, they
had become now infinitely remote. Yet one could see them in the darkened
patches amidst the glare, and especially in the northward sky, the
ancient constellations gliding steadfast and patient about the pole.

Long our two people sat in silence, and at last Elizabeth sighed.

"If I understood," she said, "if I could understand. When one is down
there the city seems everything--the noise, the hurry, the voices--you
must live, you must scramble. Here--it is nothing; a thing that passes.
One can think in peace."

"Yes," said Denton. "How flimsy it all is! From here more than half of
it is swallowed by the night.... It will pass."

"We shall pass first," said Elizabeth.

"I know," said Denton.