he rest prepared to
go to bed.

Martin went to his room and then came back and lingered by the
staircase window. As he looked out he could see a solid line of
fir-trees standing out with black severity against the moonlit sky, and
farther away was the long shoulder of the moor--he could see the ridge
they had climbed together and the rough peak which broke its symmetry
and made its splendour.

Someone was coming up. It could only be Viola: the Berrisfords slept
on the other side of the house.

It was she. Trembling, he heard the rustling of her skirts, the
creaking of the stairs, her voice by his side.

"Hullo!" she said. "Star-gazing?"

"It's a great night," he answered.

She came and stood at the window. The closeness of her thrilled him.

"I wish those owls wouldn't hoot," she said. "Is that the ridge we
climbed?"

"Yes. I did enjoy the walk."

"So did I! The air up there is so splendid. And it's all so
gorgeously empty."

"I've been up before. But I enjoyed it much more this time."

Naturally she did not take it as he meant it.

"One doesn't often get such a perfect day, I suppose," was her answer.

Martin was at a loss. He wanted to say all sorts of things:
fortunately they stuck.

She turned to go: "I'm sure you'll have a good time at Oxford and make
the most of it!"

"Thank you very much. Everyone does seem to enjoy it."

"Good-night!" she said, and left him to go to her room. The door
closed behind with a sharpness that hurt.

As Martin lingered in the passage it began to occur to him that he was
a silly fool, that boys of eighteen shouldn't fall in love with married
women of twenty-five or even more, and that, even if they did, there
was no point in being tongue-tied and nervous. But what was the good
of self-reproach? He wasn't to blame if she was perfect. And she was
perfect. To-morrow he would have to go up to Oxford. He would
scarcely see her again. There was nothing left of her now, nothing
except the boots which stood outside her door, their strong brown
leather stained with the peat of Bear Down and Devil's Tor. At last he
moved quickly to his room and undressed.

As he lay half naked on his bed he recalled the glories of the moor and
the way they had talked. God, how she had talked! They had defied
that leaping wind from whose onslaught his cheeks still burned. It had
been a day of days. Then he heard Godfrey Cartmell come up and again
the door closed. T