They had left time behind them in the house. The dark, quiet minutes lived and died unnoticed to the soft crunch of their feet on the dewy gravel. Justin stared abstractedly before him, and Laura, her step matching his, was filled with a sudden blessed sense of possession and forgot utterly all the doubt and oppression of the previous weeks. She felt herself, even as the plant-life about her, reviving, straightening, drawing strength from the night, and its peace was poured upon her like a precious ointment. She could even accept Justin’s silence without anxiety, without the quick rummage of her brain to reassure herself that she had amusement stored there for him should he show signs of boredom—ideas, questions, hobby-horses for his restlessness to straddle. For he was restless: through her peace she felt it stirring in him, and longed as she always did, to content it. She slackened. “Justin—go slower. We’re disturbing the night.” She stood still and, half impatiently, he acquiesced. “Isn’t it big? And not a star——” He drew a deep breath. “What’s that stuff—coming across in gusts—warm gusts?” “Sweet briar. There’s a hedge——” He sought awkwardly for words. “It’s—it’s like a woman breathing.” She smiled up at him. “Why not? June’s here.” He was intent. “Where?” “Here——” Her free arm flung out vaguely. “Can’t you feel her—see her?” “Can you?” “Yes, I can,” she said, low-voiced. “Wish I could.” He paused, expectant, listening, till all the tiny myriad noises that make up silence disintegrated once more. He could hear the tinkle of the brook three fields away, and the croak of its frogs, and the dry whisper of crickets in the flowery grass. Somewhere in the valley a train roared and was gone again, brief in its passage as a shooting star, and at his ear a mosquito hummed by like an echo. The metallic strains of the village gramophone, twanging out rag-time, reached him, all silvered over by the distance, and he felt himself thrill absurdly to the thin, sweet sounds. Before him lay the grey, silent garden and the black velvet of the motionless woods, but a poplar on the lawn was faintly murmurous, like a child sighing in its sleep. Overhead the bats wheeled and glimmered with threadlike cheepings. He was suddenly aware of his own enormous restlessness. A muscle in his throat was throbbing hotly: he felt thirsty and unhappy, and resentful of the quiet night and the quiet woman at his side who did not help him to he knew not what. He turned impatiently. “No. There’s only us! June indeed! Come on in. It’s getting late. How cold your fingers are——” From a near copse an owl hooted derisively. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXVII ‘If’ is the pivot of existence.