Soon next door loomed lightless among its trees. If they were there, they were all sleeping. No eyes would be staring in the darkness, gazing at the enchanted water, wondering at the dark object moving upon its surface. But no, they had not come yet: the moon came from behind a cloud and illumined the face of the great house; and it was grief-stricken as ever, bowed down with the burden of its emptiness. She turned back and swam home. The night of full moon came, warm and starry. As she swam towards the willows at the far edge of the next-door garden,--her usual goal--she saw lights in the windows. The long house spread itself peacefully under the moon, throwing out its muffled warmth of lamplight like a quiet smile. So they had come. Somebody might be in the garden,--on the river even. She clung close under the bank, by a willow stump, not daring to move, feeling her strength ebb from her. Then all at once their forms, their voices were near her. Somebody started to play a nocturne of Fauré: Julian. Before her she saw someone tall, in a pale frock, walking along the lawn: Mariella. A moment after a man’s figure came from the shadows and joined hers. Which was he? The twin glow of their cigarettes went ahead of them as they paced slowly, arm in arm, across the lawn, just as Charlie and Mariella had often paced in the dreams. They were so near they must in a moment look down and see her; but they passed on a few steps and then paused, looking out over the river, and up at the resplendent moon. The piano stopped, and soon another figure came and joined them. They were three tall shadows: their faces were indistinguishable. ‘Hullo!’ said the small clear unchanged voice of Mariella, ‘I can’t understand your music, Julian. Nor can Martin, can you, Martin?’ ‘Well it’s so damned dull. No tune in it.’ Julian’s brief laugh came for answer. It was like all the dreams to listen to these voices dropping, muted but distinct, from invisible lips close to you in the dark, saying trivial things that seemed important because of the strangeness and surprise of the meeting. ‘Why don’t you,’ said Martin, ‘play nice simple wholesome things that we can have on the brain and hum and whistle all day?’ ‘I’m not simple and wholesome enough to do them justice. I leave them to your masterly right index, Martin.’ ‘Martin’s the world’s finest one-finger man, aren’t you?’ from Mariella, teasing, affectionate. ‘Where’s Roddy?’ ‘He went off alone in the canoe.’ ‘How romantic,’ said Mariella. There was a groan. ‘Mariella, why will you----’ ‘What?’ ‘Quack,’ said Julian. ‘You _must think_ before you speak.’ She laughed. ‘Good-night,’ she said. ‘I’m going to bed. When you come upstairs mind and be quiet past the nursery. Remember it’s not _your_ nursery but Peter’s now. Nannie’ll warm your jacket if you wake him again, Martin.’ Her cigarette end hit the water a few inches from Judith. Her whitish form grew dim and was gone.