It is getting very dark. In the harbour the coal hulks show two lights—one high on a mast, and one from the stern. “Look, Bogey. Look over there.” A big black steamer with a long loop of smoke streaming, with the portholes lighted, with lights everywhere, is putting out to sea. The wind does not stop her; she cuts through the waves, making for the open gate between the pointed rocks that leads to . . . It’s the light that makes her look so awfully beautiful and mysterious. . . . _They_ are on board leaning over the rail arm in arm. “. . . Who are they?” “. . . Brother and sister.” “Look, Bogey, there’s the town. Doesn’t it look small? There’s the post office clock chiming for the last time. There’s the esplanade where we walked that windy day. Do you remember? I cried at my music lesson that day—how many years ago! Good-bye, little island, good-bye. . . .” Now the dark stretches a wing over the tumbling water. They can’t see those two any more. Good-bye, good-bye. Don’t forget. . . . But the ship is gone, now. The wind—the wind. Psychology When she opened the door and saw him standing there she was more pleased than ever before, and he, too, as he followed her into the studio, seemed very very happy to have come. “Not busy?” “No. Just going to have tea.” “And you are not expecting anybody?” “Nobody at all.” “Ah! That’s good.” He laid aside his coat and hat gently, lingeringly, as though he had time and to spare for everything, or as though he were taking leave of them for ever, and came over to the fire and held out his hands to the quick, leaping flame. Just for a moment both of them stood silent in that leaping light. Still, as it were, they tasted on their smiling lips the sweet shock of their greeting. Their secret selves whispered: “Why should we speak? Isn’t this enough?” “More than enough. I never realized until this moment . . .” “How good it is just to be with you. . . .” “Like this. . . .” “It’s more than enough.” But suddenly he turned and looked at her and she moved quickly away. “Have a cigarette? I’ll put the kettle on. Are you longing for tea?” “No. Not longing.” “Well, I am.” “Oh, you.” He thumped the Armenian cushion and flung on to the _sommier._ “You’re a perfect little Chinee.” “Yes, I am,” she laughed. “I long for tea as strong men long for wine.” She lighted the lamp under its broad orange shade, pulled the curtains and drew up the tea table. Two birds sang in the kettle; the fire fluttered. He sat up clasping his knees. It was delightful—this business of having tea—and she always had delicious things to eat—little sharp sandwiches, short sweet almond fingers, and a dark, rich cake tasting of rum—but it was an interruption. He wanted it over, the table pushed away, their two chairs drawn up to the light, and the moment came when he took out his pipe, filled it, and said, pressing the tobacco tight into the bowl: “I have been thinking over what you said last time and it seems to me . . .”