She went into the house, put a few things together. Jethro came in soon after nine. He was a bit surly--he had surly fits occasionally. To-night she took no notice. She couldn’t find it in her heart to look at him, knowing the part she was going to play. By ten she was dressed and standing under the yew. Her bag and umbrella, set against the wall of the house, seemed a grotesquely modern touch beside the silence and starlight, in contrast to the sharp delight and terror of her own face. How white and gaunt the ladders and scaffolding looked! What a queer, old-world interior the dining-room made! She could see straight through; they rarely drew the curtains these light June nights. The night-jar called harshly, a beetle dashed against her face, then whirred away. From the stall came loud, human-sounding, trumpeting moans. They made her shudder. She knew that one of the cows was calving. Once she saw the light of a lantern--muddy and yellow, like a bilious eye, beside the hard stars--go round the building. She hid behind the yew, listening to the steady clump of Boyce’s boots as he went in to tend the animal. The church clock struck a quarter to eleven. He was late, a quarter of an hour late; perhaps they wouldn’t catch the last up-train from Liddleshorn. Very likely he was out in the road merely waiting, as a matter of prudence, until Boyce went away. The loud moans of the tortured cow struck her heart. She strained her eyes, expecting every moment to see the tall, lithe figure steal across the garden. She strained her ears, imagining she heard the sharp ring of hoofs along the road. They came nearer, more certain, more distinct. She advanced like a guilty thing to the gate, creeping along in the starlight. Each time she reached the poplar there was perfect silence. Each time she looked along the road it stretched straight and blank across the common. Yet when she waited at the yew again she fancied that she heard the ring of those quick hoofs. The quarters chimed on. Boyce, with his yellow-eyed lantern, shuffled out of sight. The world was only stars and boding night-jar and sentinel trees which had hardly stirred a leaf in the hot, still air. Twelve! Two clocks chimed midnight together, tripping each other up, like stammering tongues. He would never come now. Even as she stood there, sick and flushing, the whistle of the last up-train tore the night, and on the horizon she saw the lurid tail of fire. She only wanted him to come, to creep behind the yew and kiss her, as he had kissed that little pink fool, Nancy Turle. She didn’t trouble her head about anything more; didn’t add to her agitation by worrying over practical details. They could walk under the stars until dawn--anything. Mere trifles like food, sleep, sore feet, light head, were nothing. If only he would come! Those maddening hoofs kept ringing along the road. A dozen times she ran along the bricked path.