Twilight had come in gold and gone in crimson: only faintest hints of greens and lilacs still lingered low down on the horizon. Eynsham Bridge was a humped black shadow across the dulled silver of the stream. Eynsham hills stood out in clear sepia against a turquoise sky. “Good-night,” called the weir-man. “Good-night,” they called back to him. Now, they were utterly alone. The weir plunged and gurgled; a fish leaped in the pool. Darker it grew, and darker. They could hardly see each other across the rug which had served them for dinner-table. “Shall I light the candles in the tent?” he asked. “If you like, dear.” He rose slowly to his feet; and she watched his flannelled figure disappear in the gloom. Light winked from the tent-flap; the tent glowed suddenly, a cone of saffron radiance. . . . He came back to her, picking his way quietly across the grass; saw that she had not moved. She was aware of him, dropping down beside her in the gloom. “Pat darling,”—his voice held a new tenderness; his hand, as it sought hers, seemed to tremble—“I’ve been wanting to tell you something ever since we started.” Their fingers trembled together, met and twined. His left arm slipped round her shoulders. “What have you wanted to tell me?” He drew her close to him. His heart throbbed against her shoulder-blades. “I don’t quite know how to say it.” She could feel him blush in the darkness. “It—it isn’t the sort of thing one says to one’s wife. . . .” He couldn’t go on: he was afraid she would laugh at him. “What isn’t, Peter?” The whisper hardly reached him. “I mean”—words came stumblingly—“I mean—the thing I wanted to tell you. . . . Pat darling, it isn’t very much. It’s—it’s just that I love you. And you mustn’t laugh at me for it.” “Why should I laugh at you, boy?” she whispered. “I don’t know. Why shouldn’t you laugh at me? Don’t you remember—before we got married—you said that being in love was all nonsense; that husband and wife ought to be. . . .” “Don’t, Peter, don’t!”—he knew, though in all his life he had never heard her cry, that she was crying. “You make me so ashamed. It’s been my own fault—every bit of it has been my own fault”—he couldn’t understand—he only knew that suddenly happiness had come to them both—she crept into his arms—“Peter?” “Yes, darling.” “Am I the only woman you’ve ever tried to make love to? . . . .” Was she laughing now? or crying? He couldn’t understand—he couldn’t understand at all. “Do answer me, boy?” “Of course you are. I’ve never loved anybody but you in my life.” “Honestly?” she asked. “On my dying oath, Pat.” Suddenly, he felt her hand on his shoulder; heard her say: “Oh, boy, boy, I believe you. . . . You’re such a rotten lover, boy. . . . You haven’t even asked me whether I love you. . . .” “I—” he began. “Don’t. I’m—I’m rather glad you’re such a rotten lover, boy. I—I love you for it.” Very tenderly, their lips met in the darkness. . . .