Osborn was in a strange humour, like a fractious child, and she did more than bear with it. She ignored it altogether. As they drove out of London, the business of threading the maze of traffic kept him from talking even if he would, but when they had run into silence and the peace of the country, he was still quiet, gazing straight in front of him, his hat jammed down over his eyes and his jaw set rigid. At last he heard her voice saying: "Isn't it lovely? I wish we had a car." "We can have one if you like." He drove on fast. Sometime this afternoon, when she had tasted the joy of the day and the comfort of the car, he would tell her about Sunday--no details, only the bleak blank fact: "I shall be away all to-morrow; I'm motoring down to Brighton." They went through Epsom and Leatherhead to more rustic villages beyond, and he pulled up at last on the summit of a great hill, fringed on either side with trees. "This is a jolly place to stop for tea," he said, breaking his long silence. "I've got everything here." As he pulled out a tea basket from the back of the car she watched him calmly. She still thought him excessively good-looking. In their engaged days they had often escaped into the country--but on foot--and picnicked together; each had known the other to be the most wonderful person in the world. Now that love had passed the memory was well worth keeping, and she enjoyed it quietly as she sat in the car, looking down upon the back of his head bent over his task. He sat down again, opening the basket between them, and set up the spirit stove and lighted it for her to boil the minute kettle upon it. While she did this, it was his turn to watch her; and presently from his moroseness he said in a very soft voice: "It's like old days, isn't it?" "Only we're more gorgeous." "You're enjoying it?" "Immensely. Why wouldn't you take George?" "I didn't want him. Did you?" "I always want him." "We're going to stay out till long past his bedtime." "Are we?" "There's a moon. It's tophole for motoring. I'm--taking this car out again to-morrow." "Are you?" He shot a glance at her and postponed the matter. They drove on fast and far, only turning when the moon was up and stars were in the sky. They arrived again upon the summit of the great hill, the fringing trees now black in the light of fairy whiteness, before he spoke again of what filled his brain. He drew up the car and, turning a look of inquiry upon him, she saw him bending towards her, his eyes fixed upon her face. He flung out an arm along the back of the seat, behind her. "Marie," he said, "I want to ask you something which you can't answer." "Why ask it, then?" "Because I'm going to. It's this: where are we two going?" "You're right," she said slowly, "I can't answer that." "What's the meaning of this dreadful indifference? This extraordinary indifference?"