Mary came down the hill like a runaway steam-engine. It was tremendously exciting, this blind rush through the dark; she felt she would never stop. But the ground grew level beneath her feet, her speed insensibly slackened, and suddenly she was caught by an extended arm and brought to an abrupt halt. “Well,” said Ivor as he tightened his embrace, “you’re caught now, Anne.” She made an effort to release herself. “It’s not Anne. It’s Mary.” Ivor burst into a peal of amused laughter. “So it is!” he exclaimed. “I seem to be making nothing but floaters this evening. I’ve already made one with Jenny.” He laughed again, and there was something so jolly about his laughter that Mary could not help laughing too. He did not remove his encircling arm, and somehow it was all so amusing and natural that Mary made no further attempt to escape from it. They walked along by the side of the pool, interlaced. Mary was too short for him to be able, with any comfort, to lay his head on her shoulder. He rubbed his cheek, caressed and caressing, against the thick, sleek mass of her hair. In a little while he began to sing again; the night trembled amorously to the sound of his voice. When he had finished he kissed her. Anne or Mary: Mary or Anne. It didn’t seem to make much difference which it was. There were differences in detail, of course; but the general effect was the same; and, after all, the general effect was the important thing. Denis made his way down the hill. “Any damage done?” he called out. “Is that you, Denis? I’ve hurt my ankle so--and my knee, and my hand. I’m all in pieces.” “My poor Anne,” he said. “But then,” he couldn’t help adding, “it was silly to start running downhill in the dark.” “Ass!” she retorted in a tone of tearful irritation; “of course it was.” He sat down beside her on the grass, and found himself breathing the faint, delicious atmosphere of perfume that she carried always with her. “Light a match,” she commanded. “I want to look at my wounds.” He felt in his pockets for the match-box. The light spurted and then grew steady. Magically, a little universe had been created, a world of colours and forms--Anne’s face, the shimmering orange of her dress, her white, bare arms, a patch of green turf--and round about a darkness that had become solid and utterly blind. Anne held out her hands; both were green and earthy with her fall, and the left exhibited two or three red abrasions.