ll walk round with you: unless you'd rather not."

"No--But do you want to bother?"

"It's no bother."

So they pursued their way through the high wind, and turned at last
into the old, beautiful square. It seemed dark and deserted, dark like
a savage wilderness in the heart of London. The wind was roaring in the
great bare trees of the centre, as if it were some wild dark grove deep
in a forgotten land.

Josephine opened the gate of the square garden with her key, and let it
slam to behind him.

"How wonderful the wind is!" she shrilled. "Shall we listen to it for a
minute?"

She led him across the grass past the shrubs to the big tree in the
centre. There she climbed up to a seat. He sat beside her. They sat in
silence, looking at the darkness. Rain was blowing in the wind. They
huddled against the big tree-trunk, for shelter, and watched the scene.

Beyond the tall shrubs and the high, heavy railings the wet street
gleamed silently. The houses of the Square rose like a cliff on this
inner dark sea, dimly lighted at occasional windows. Boughs swayed and
sang. A taxi-cab swirled round a corner like a cat, and purred to a
standstill. There was a light of an open hall door. But all far away,
it seemed, unthinkably far away. Aaron sat still and watched. He was
frightened, it all seemed so sinister, this dark, bristling heart of
London. Wind boomed and tore like waves ripping a shingle beach. The two
white lights of the taxi stared round and departed, leaving the coast
at the foot of the cliffs deserted, faintly spilled with light from the
high lamp. Beyond there, on the outer rim, a policeman passed solidly.

Josephine was weeping steadily all the time, but inaudibly. Occasionally
she blew her nose and wiped her face. But he had not realized. She
hardly realized herself. She sat near the strange man. He seemed so
still and remote--so fascinating.

"Give me your hand," she said to him, subduedly.

He took her cold hand in his warm, living grasp. She wept more bitterly.
He noticed at last.

"Why are you crying?" he said.

"I don't know," she replied, rather matter-of-fact, through her tears.

So he let her cry, and said no more, but sat with her cold hand in his
warm, easy clasp.

"You'll think me a fool," she said. "I don't know why I cry."

"You can cry for nothing, can't you?" he said.

"Why, yes, but it's not very sensible."

He laughed shortly.

"Sensible!" he said.

"You are a strange man," sh