From this speculation he came back to find Ruth just finishing her sentence, the car still opposite the window, the loaf of bread still lifted in Phyllis’s hand. It occurred to him that this evening was damnably like the slowed motion-pictures in which the stream of life is retarded into its component gestures. Now he was to have the embarrassment of witnessing the actual rhythm of living, the sluggish pattern that underlies gay human ritual, the grave airy dancing of creation treading softly its dark measure to unheard, undreamed music. The smallest alteration in the mind’s pace changes everything, as some trifling misprint turns a commonplace newspaper headline into obscenity. They drove into the stable. “I miss the nice old horsey smell,” said Ruth. “Too bad, it’s only a garage now.” “Which was it you wanted to revive, the horsey smell or the embraces of Ben?” said George. “The loft hasn’t changed much, I think.” He snapped on the light. While the others climbed the narrow little stair behind the old feed bins he filled the radiator with water and poured oil into the crank case. Morosely he heard their words overhead. “Someone’s left a blanket up here.” “Look, the bay’s all full of moonlight. I didn’t remember it was like that.” “We were children then, we didn’t know about the moon. We had to go to bed too early.” “The old swing’s gone.” (This was Mr. Martin’s voice.) “Why ... how did you know? Yes, that’s where it was, that beam....” I thought that lunatic had been here before, George said to himself. He seems to know his way about. He started the motor again. He thought he had noticed a faint roughness in its turning. He listened attentively, marvelling at the strong, hurrying fidelity of those airy explosions. I know why this car has kept her youth, he thought. She hasn’t had any proper care, but she’s been loved. A soft throbby purring, with a sweet quavering rhythm; the sound of sliding, of revolving, of vapour evenly expelled. It was a consoling, normal kind of sound; complete in itself; it shut out the voices upstairs. A touch on the throttle and it rose to a growl of unused power, a shout of fierce unquestioning assent, not much different from defiance. The old barn rang. It was as if an officer of some colonial regiment called on his legions for a fatal exploit, and heard in their answering yell a voice of savagery that might turn against himself. He switched the key; the sound slid off into a soft conclusive sigh. There was an almost human breath of frustration in it. He closed the hood, his mind too vague for thinking, and saw Joyce standing there. “I thought Mr. and Mrs. Brook would like a moment of privacy,” she whispered.