Voices in the garden....
It was midnight, probably; it _felt_ midnight. The cigar in my hand had
long ago gone out. On the lawn the heavy dew was glistening faintly;
there was no light anywhere but starshine, and no sound anywhere but the
voices.
Terry's voice. I heard him say: "Everybody gone to bed, of course. I've
got the key, though."
And then, in answer, a whisper more to be felt than heard. "Oh, the
lovely--_lovely_ night! ... Terry, can't we go for another walk?"
That was June.... They had entered by the side-gate, and were standing,
so far as I could judge, outside the back-door of the bar--perhaps
thirty or forty yards away from me.
He said: "_Now_? Why, it's long past midnight. Hilton will be sitting up
for me."
"Never mind--he won't care.... Oh, Terry--Terry--I feel so utterly
miserable to-night--I don't want to go in at all."
"We _must_, June. It's _too_ late to be out."
Silence for seconds--perhaps for a minute altogether.