ing with cold drops; and darkness lay
like the hem of an enormous cloak, whose jewels above the breast of
its wearer might be in the unfathomable clearness the glittering
constellations....

In his small cage of darkness Lawford shuddered and raised a furtive
head. He stood up and peered eagerly and strangely from side to side. He
stayed quite still, listening as raptly as some wandering night-beast to
the indiscriminate stir and echoings of the darkness. He cocked his head
above his shoulder and listened again, then turned upon the soundless
grass towards the hill. He felt not the faintest astonishment or
strangeness in his solitude here; only a little chilled, and physically
uneasy; and yet in this vast darkness a faint spiritual exaltation
seemed to hover.

He hastened up the narrow path, walking with knees a little bent, like
an old labourer who has lived a life of stooping, and came out into the
dry and dusty lane. One moment his instinct hesitated as to which turn
to take--only a moment; he was soon walking swiftly, almost trotting,
downhill with this vivid exaltation in the huge dark night in his
heart, and Sheila merely a little angry Titianesque cloud on a scarcely
perceptible horizon. He had no notion of the time; the golden hands of
his watch were indiscernible in the gloom. But presently, as he passed
by, he pressed his face close to the cold glass of a little shop-window,
and pierced that out by an old Swiss cuckoo-clock. He would if he
hurried just be home before dinner.

He broke into a slow, steady trot, gaining speed as he ran on, vaguely
elated to find how well his breath was serving him. An odd smile
darkened his face at remembrance of the thoughts he had been thinking.
There could be little amiss with the heart of a man who could shamble
along like this, taking even pleasure, an increasing pleasure in this
long, wolf-like stride. He turned round occasionally to look into the
face of some fellow-wayfarer whom he had overtaken, for he felt not only
this unusual animation, this peculiar zest, but that, like a boy on some
secret errand, he had slightly disguised his very presence, was going
masked, as it were. Even his clothes seemed to have connived at this
queer illusion. No tailor had for these ten years allowed him so
much latitude. He cautiously at last opened his garden gate and with
soundless agility mounted the six stone steps, his latch-key ready in
his gloveless hand, and softly let himself