“That’s all right,” she laughed. “We can go along the lane and into the
Old Woking Road. Do you mind? Of course you don’t. My head. It doesn’t
matter. One never meets anybody.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve wandered like this before.... Of course. Did you think”—she
nodded her head back at her home—“that’s all?”
“No, by Jove!” I cried; “it’s manifest it isn’t.”
She took my arm and turned me down the lane. “Night’s my time,” she
said by my side. “There’s a touch of the werewolf in my blood. One
never knows in these old families.... I’ve wondered often.... Here we
are, anyhow, alone in the world. Just darkness and cold and a sky of
clouds and wet. And we—together.
“I like the wet on my face and hair, don’t you? When do you sail?”