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But above her head the woman, looking up, could see the rose change to
orange and could watch the cloud, like a pool of green water, extend and
rest, lying like a sheet of glass behind which the orange gleamed.
They met always thus, she coming from the town as though turning upwards
through the tangled path to her home in the Precincts, he sauntering
slowly, his hands behind his back, as though he had been wandering there
to think out some problem....
Sometimes he did not come, sometimes she could not. They never stayed more
than ten minutes there together. No one from month to month at that hour
crossed that desolate path.
To-day he began impetuously. "If you hadn't come to-night, I think I would
have gone to find you. I had to see you. No, I had nothing to say. Only to
see you. But I am so lonely in that house. I always knew I was lonely--
never more than when I was married--but now.... If I hadn't these ten
minutes most days I'd die, I think...."
They didn't touch one another, but stood opposite gazing, face into face.
"What are we to do?" he said.


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