Eric stood
gazing at the stars and drinking in the thousand mingled scents and
sounds of the night. Somewhere hard by, a bonfire was pungently
smouldering; there was a sour smell where a flock of geese had been
feeding all day; flaring acridly across was a transitory reek of burnt
lubricating oil, and the hint of a cigar so faint that it was gone
before he could be sure of it. . . . The lumbering creak of the
mill-wheel rose assertively above the drone and plash of the stream; a
shiver of rain and a gentle sigh of wind in the top branches of the
trees behind him were suddenly swallowed by the hoot of an owl.

Eric started--and wondered why he was standing there in the cold. Then
he remembered that he had stayed to be by himself and to think
something out. There was a change somewhere, and he was trying to locate
it. He had come to retouch his memory of Agnes, and he had seen her
alone and with others; they had talked the conventional jargon of the
dinner-table, their fingers had brushed emotion as they discussed her
missing brother, and for half an hour they had marched up and down the
terrace arm-in-arm, discussing and arguing on an unwritten book,
recapturing an old intimacy which he had shared with no one else. In the
light of the drawing-room Agnes' grey eyes were black and mysterious;
her lips were parted, and her cheeks warmly flushed; he had never seen
her look prettier, he had never been more attracted by her.

The change must be in himself; he demanded of her something more
volcanic and inspiring than she could give, something to feed his own
languid vitality instead of placidly laying him to rest. . . .

Shutting the front door, he went back to the drawing-room, where the
family was assembled to compare notes and pool information.

"The vicar's starting a class for making bandages. . . ."

"The Warings haven't heard anything of Jack yet. . . ."

"That Benyon must be one of the Herefordshire lot, I fancy. An old
private bank. . . ."

Eric hesitated on the threshold, looking from one to another. Sybil was
undisguisedly disappointed; she had so desperately set her heart on his
marrying her beloved Agnes, and the night's meeting had brought them no
nearer. Lady Lane, still anxious, beckoned him into the room and took
his face between her hands, turning it to the light and kissing his eyes
again, as on his arrival.

"You look tired, Eric. You'd better go to bed, or you'll never be down
to breakfast."

"I