To Eve the adventure began by seeming utterly unreal. Even when the motor drew up in a dark lane, and the lights were turned out after the attacking party had loaded themselves with bags of shavings, tow, and a can of petrol, she was hardly convinced that she was off to help in burning down a house. She asked herself why she was doing it. The spirit of revolt failed to answer in a voice that was passionate enough to be convincing. They went in single file, Lawrence Kentucky leading the way. He carried an electric torch which he used from time to time like a boy out for mischief. They climbed a gate, crossed a grass field, and came to a fence backed by straggling laurels and hollies. There was a place where two or three of the fence palings were rotten and had been kicked in by Mr. Kentucky when he had come to spy out the land. They squeezed through, one by one. Someone whispered to Eve as she stooped to pass through. “Mind the nails. I’ll show you a light.” His torch glowed, and she had a momentary glimpse of his face, thin, neurotic, with restless eyes, and a mouth that had the voracious look that one sees in men who are always hungry for some new sensation. She could have imagined him swearing volubly, laughing hysterically, biting his pipe stems in two, a whimsical egoist who rushed hither and thither to escape from being bored. “All right? Rather like playing oranges and lemons.” She knew at once that he wanted to flirt with her, but she had no desire to cut out Lizzie Straker. They threaded through a big shrubbery, and came out against a black mass piled in the middle of a broad lawn. It was the house they had come to burn. “The kitchen window, Jones—at it with the glass-cutter! Who’ll stay outside and keep cave?” Eve offered herself. “Why, you’ll miss half the fun.” “I don’t mind.” The grass on the lawn promised a good hay crop. There was a wooden seat built round the trunk of an old lime, and Eve settled herself there after the others had disappeared. The night was absolutely soundless, stars scattered like dust above the solid parapet and low roof of the red brick Georgian house. It stood there, mute, deserted, with sightless eyes, and a sudden pity seized on Eve. It was as though the house were alive, and she was helping to do it to death. Houses were part of life. They held a spiritual and impalpable something that mattered. They had souls. She began to watch, as though she was to be present at a tragedy, with a feeling of tension at her heart. Who had lived there? To whom did the house belong? Had children been born yonder, and had tired eyes closed in death? Had children played in the garden, and under this tree? It was illogical to pity bricks and mortar, and yet this sentimental mood of hers belonged to those more exquisite sensibilities that save life from being nothing better than a savage scramble.