Eve lay and looked at the sky, and at the dim tops of the trees sliding by, trailing their branches across the stars. She could see the outline of Canterton’s head and shoulders in front of her, but never once did she see his profile, for the car was travelling fast and he kept his eyes on the winding road that was lit brilliantly by the electric headlights. They swept through Basingford like a charge of horse. Eve saw the spire of the church walk by, a line of dark roofs undulating beneath it. The car turned sharply into the London road, and the quickening purr of the engine told of an open throttle. They drove ten miles before Canterton slowed up and drew to the side of the road. “You can join me now!” He leant over and opened the door, and she took the seat beside him. “Warm enough?” “Yes.” He looked at her throat. “Button up that flap across the collar. That’s it. And here’s a rug. I have had to keep myself glued to the wheel for the last twenty minutes. There is a lot of common land about here, and you never know when a cow or a pony may drop from the skies.” They were off again, with trees, hedgerows, gates, and cottages rushing into the glare of the headlights, and vanishing behind them. “Would you like to sleep?” “No; I feel utterly awake!” “Not distressfully so?” “No, not in that way. I have no regrets. And I think I am very happy.” He let the car race to her full speed along a straight stretch of road. “I could drive over the Himalayas to-night—do anything. You have a way of making me feel most exultantly competent.” “Have I? How good. Shall I always be so stimulating?” He looked down at her momentarily. “Yes, because we shall not be crushing life to get all its perfume.” “Restraint keeps things vivid.” “That’s it—that’s what people don’t realise about marriage.” She thrilled to the swift motion of the car, and to the knowledge that the imperturbable audacity of his driving was a man’s tribute to her presence. “I suppose most people would say that we are utterly wrong.” “It would be utterly wrong, for most people.” “But not for us.” “Not for us. We are just doing the sane and logical thing, because it is possible for us to live above the conventions. Ordinary people have to live on make-believe, and pretend they like it, and to shout ‘shame,’ when the really clean people insist on living like free and rational beings.” “You are not afraid of the old women!” “Good God! aren’t some of us capable of getting above the sexual fog—above all that dull and pious nastiness? That’s why I like a man like Shaw, who lets off moral dynamite under the world’s immoral morality. All the crusty, nonsensical notions come tumbling about mediocrity’s ears. There are times when it is a man’s duty to shock his neighbours!”