She lit her cigarette from his, steadying herself with her hand on his shoulder. Then she lay back, staring up at the fleecy sky where the moon tipped clouds to a silver glory. She began to sing softly between her puffs: The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of a whole world dies With the dying sun.” She sang the same verse over three times, pausing between each singing as if she were repeating a question. “Don’t you know the second verse?” he asked unsteadily. “Yes, I know it.” “Won’t you sing it? The whole meaning of life and everything is in the last two Unes.” “D’you really want me to? I don’t care for it so much because it’s about love. I don’t think love ever made anybody happy.” For a moment he was tempted to argue this heresy. “But sing it,” he urged. In a soft sleepy voice she sang: “The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole world dies When love is done.” He waited for her to repeat it When she remained silent, he stopped the car. She turned to him lazily: “Something gone wrong with the engine?” He was certain she knew what had gone wrong, and was equally certain that she was wilfully pretending to misunderstand him. Far below in the valley, like a faeryring, the lights of Bath winked and twinkled. The silence, after the sound of their going, breathed across the country like a prolonged sighing. How should he tell her? How did men speak to the women they loved? He turned aside from his purpose and procrastinated. “Sing it again,” he pleaded, “the last verse. Now, that everything’s quiet.” “No.” She sat up determinedly. “It’s very beautiful; especially that part about light dying when love is done. But it isn’t true. People love heaps of times, and each new time they get more sensible. It’s like climbing a ladder: you see more as you go higher. Besides, that last verse makes me cry.” “Love makes people happy.” His voice was low and trembling. “You shouldn’t pretend to be a cynic. You’re too beautiful.” “Oh, well, perhaps you are right, but----” She threw away her cigarette. “Please be nice. You don’t know what things I’ve had done to me to make me talk like that” She touched him on the arm ever so lightly: “When we’re traveling, we talk so much better. Hadn’t we better be going?” And then, when they were again humming down the long hill, with the white lamps scything the shadows: “This really is fun. It’ll be something to remember.” “Something to talk about together,” he said.