`Ha! For long?'

`No; only till tomorrow.'

`Must you go straight home?'

She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim.

`No,' she said `--no; it's not necessary.'

He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through the throng of church-people. The organ was still sounding in St Mary's. Dark figures came through the lighted doors; people were coming down the steps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church was like a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took the car for the Bridges.

`You will just have supper with me,' he said; `then I'll bring you back.'

`Very well,' she replied, low and husky.

They scarcely spoke while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark and full under the bridge. Away towards Colwich all was black night. He lived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of the town, facing across the river meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the steep scarp of Colwick Wood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness spread away on their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses.

Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowl of freesias and scarlet anemones on the table. She bent to them. Still touching them with her fingertips, she looked up at him, saying:

`Aren't they beautiful?'

`Yes,' he said. `What will you drink--coffee?'

`I should like it,' she said.

`Then excuse me a moment.'

He went out to the kitchen.

Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, severe room. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked on the drawing-board to see what he was doing. There were only a few meaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading. Evidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she saw were from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know. Everything he had touched, everything that was in the least personal to him, she examined with lingering absorption. He had been gone from her for so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he was now. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made her feel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless.

She was curiously examining a sketch-book when he returned with the coffee.

`There's nothing new in it,' he said, `and nothing very interesting.'

He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned the pages slowly, intent on examining everything.

`H'm!' he said, as she paused at a sketch. `I'd forgotten that. It's not bad, is it?'

`No,' she said. `I don't quite understand it.'