We had tea and tried to sustain a conversation. If this manuscript were
an autobiography I should devote whole pages to the thoughts and fears
that invaded my mind during that meal; and yet I believe I was quite
eloquent about topics that now I can't even remember. There's a sort of
talk that is especially copious when one is thinking all the time about
something else.
After tea I said: "Shall we wait?"--and she answered quietly: "We'll
wait--for a little while." So we waited. It was already half-past six,
but June was used to night-driving and there was no particular hurry.
The whole year has nothing lovelier, perhaps, than those early days of
May, when twilight is like the perfect curtain descending on the perfect
play. And yet to me, at any rate, the passing of that afternoon seemed
ominous; for we were still waiting, and each minute gave us less to talk
about and more to think about. Clouds rolled up and brought the dusk
suddenly, and then came heavy, beating rain. When Taplow entered to
light the swinging oil-lamps the sad yellow glow peered into all the
corners of the room as if to show up rather than dispel the darkness.
"This ought to bring 'em back pretty quick," he said, as he closed the
windows against the downpour.
Ten minutes after that they came....