Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the paddock beside their palings as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who was it? Who could it be? It couldn’t be a burglar, certainly not a burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl’s heart leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized him. “Good evening, Miss Beryl,” said the voice softly. “Good evening.” “Won’t you come for a little walk?” it drawled. Come for a walk—at that time of night! “I couldn’t. Everybody’s in bed. Everybody’s asleep.” “Oh,” said the voice lightly, and a whiff of sweet smoke reached her. “What does everybody matter? Do come! It’s such a fine night. There’s not a soul about.” Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something reared its head. The voice said, “Frightened?” It mocked, “Poor little girl!” “Not in the least,” said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to go! And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said, gently and softly, but finally, “Come along!” Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the veranda, ran down the grass to the gate. He was there before her. “That’s right,” breathed the voice, and it teased, “You’re not frightened, are you? You’re not frightened?” She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken. “Not in the least,” she said lightly. “Why should I be?” Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back. “No, I’m not coming any farther,” said Beryl. “Oh, rot!” Harry Kember didn’t believe her. “Come along! We’ll just go as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!” The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was a little pit of darkness beneath. “No, really, I don’t want to,” said Beryl. For a moment Harry Kember didn’t answer. Then he came close to her, turned to her, smiled and said quickly, “Don’t be silly! Don’t be silly!” His smile was something she’d never seen before. Was he drunk? That bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched her to him. “Cold little devil! Cold little devil!” said the hateful voice. But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free. “You are vile, vile,” said she. “Then why in God’s name did you come?” stammered Harry Kember. Nobody answered him. A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away, and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it waked out of a dark dream. All was still. The Garden-Party