At last, on the high-up, naked down, they came upon those meaningless pavements that run through the grass, waiting for the houses to line them. The two were thrust up into the night above the little flowering of the lamps in the valley. In front was the daze of light from London, rising midway to the zenith, just fainter than the stars. Across the valley, on the blackness of the opposite hill, little groups of lights like gnats seemed to be floating in the darkness. Orion was heeled over the West. Below, in a cleft in the night, the long, low garland of arc lamps strung down the Brighton Road, where now and then the golden tram-cars flew along the track, passing each other with a faint, angry sound.
"It is a year last Monday since we came over here," said Winifred, as they stopped to look about them.
"I remember--but I didn't know it was then," he said. There was a touch of hardness in his voice. "I don't remember our dates."
After a wait, she said in a very low, passionate tones:
"It is a beautiful night."
"The moon has set, and the evening star," he answered; "both were out as I came down."
She glanced swiftly at him to see if this speech was a bit of symbolism. He was looking across the valley with a set face. Very slightly, by an inch or two, she nestled towards him.
"Yes," she said, half-stubborn, half-pleading. "But the night is a very fine one, for all that."
"Yes," he replied, unwillingly.
Thus, after months of separation, they dove-tailed into the same love and hate.