“Oh, you are coming back,” he said; “it’s a fine night for a walk, don’t you think so?--well, not after Africa, perhaps; but we are used in England to like these soft, grey skies and the feeling of--well, of dew and coolness in the air.” “I call it damp and mud,” said Ralph, with an explosion of a laugh which seemed somehow to be an explosion _manqué_, as if the damp had got into that too. “Ah,” said his brother, reflectively. “Well it is rather a brutal way of judging, but perhaps you are right. I am going to take a _giro_ round the common. We shall meet at dinner.” And then he took off his hat to Lucy, and with a nod to Bertram went on. There was an involuntary pause among the three to watch him walking along the damp road--in which they had themselves encountered occasional puddles--as if a carpet had been spread underneath his dainty feet. “Is this Rege’s way?” said Ralph. “It’s an odd thing for him surely--going out to walk now. He never would wet his feet any more than a cat. What is he doing out at night in the dark, a damp night, bad for his throat. Does my mother know?” “Oh,” said Lucy, with a curious confusion; “why shouldn’t he go now, if he likes! It isn’t cold, it’s not so very damp, and Reginald’s an Englishman, and isn’t afraid of a bit of damp or a wet road. You are so hard to please. You are finding fault with everybody, Raaf.” “Am I?” he said. “Perhaps I am. I’ve grown a brute, being so much away.” “Oh, Raaf, I didn’t mean that. Reginald has--his own ways. Don’t you know, we never ask what he means, mother and I. He always means just what’s the right thing, don’t you know. It is a very nice time to--to take a _giro_; look how the sky’s beginning to break there out of the clouds. I always like an evening walk; so did mother when she was strong enough. And then Reginald has such a feeling for art. He always says the village is so pretty with the lights in the windows, and the sweep of the fresh air on the common--and--and all that.” “Just so, Lucy,” said Ralph.